


Goddamn Electric

by GoodGollyMissYollie (Yollie183)



Series: Ride The Lightning [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Bandom - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Sexual Content, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-06 13:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 33
Words: 67,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6756670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yollie183/pseuds/GoodGollyMissYollie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers works for a discreet private security company and gets assigned to James Barnes, a musician who takes the idea of 'sex, drugs & rock 'n roll' just a little too seriously.</p><p>***Complete***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Your Trust is in Whiskey and Weed and Black Sabbath

**Author's Note:**

> Work and chapter title from Goddamn Electric by Pantera.

_I'm feeling miles away_

_You think I've got it made_

_I don't belong here_

_I'm feeling like a candle burning at both ends_

_I don't belong here_

_Now I hide myself away_

_I never wanna feel again_

_Cause I faced this all alone_

_I let it seep and wash away now_

_It's all the same_

_And what I have I have in mind_

_And I think about you all the time_

 

_\- Got It Made, Seether_

_~_

 

“Are you sure you gave me the right assignment?” Steve pinched his phone between his ear and shoulder, frowning down at the folder in his hand.

“ _Yes, Captain Rogers_ ,” the voice of Nick Fury – head of Shield, the private security firm Steve worked for – said over the line.

“I’m not a captain anymore,” Steve said for the umpteenth time, “I’m just Steve now.”

“ _Well, Just Steve_ ,” Fury said in exasperation, “ _I am sure I gave you the right assignment. Now get to work_.”

“Alright, thanks, Nick,” Steve said and ended the call.

 

He stared at the file. Being ex-special forces meant that Steve usually got assigned as bodyguard to politicians and dignitaries. This time though, his client was James Barnes. And honest-to-god _rock star._ Even Steve, who was utterly ignorant of rock music, knew who James Barnes was. He was notorious for living the clichéd ‘sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll’ lifestyle that was better suited to the eighties. James Barnes was a wreck, and Steve wasn’t sure he felt good about being his bodyguard. Steve wasn’t even sure why he would need a bodyguard. The few pictures Steve had seen of him showed a man who was nearly as tall as Steve and in just as good physical shape.

Steve, however, knew he had no choice in the matter, not if he wanted to keep his job. And Nick had never yet made a bad call when selecting clients, so there was no reason for Steve to go against him.

 

Instead, Steve called his housemate and friend.

 

“Sam,” Steve said seriously when Sam answered his phone. “I’ve been assigned to James Barnes.”

“ _Who?_ ”

“James Barnes, man. The guy from Siberia, the band? You’re always going on to Nat about how she thinks he’s hot and she threatens to dismember you?”

“ _Oh! That guy. But you don’t even like rock music._ ”

 

Steve did not like rock music, that much was true. He thought it was noisy and messy and belonged in dive bars. Which was why, in the days leading up to him being shipped off to Holland to stand guard outside a door while James Barnes enjoyed his drug-fuelled orgies during their European tour, Steve played Mario Kart with Sam and Nat and Clint, instead of listening to the get-to-know-your-client package that Shield had sent over.

 

“You cheating asshole!” Clint screamed at Natasha, throwing down his controller.

“Blue Shells are not cheating,” Natasha said serenely, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“They damn well should be,” Clint muttered angrily as he stomped to Steve and Sam’s kitchen. He was still muttering when he came back laden with cold beer and Doritos. Steve grinned happily, content with second place, and watched Sam and Clint strategize on how to take Nat out in the next round. He was going to miss this. It was easily the worst part of his job, having to be away from home for long periods of time. Still, he got to see the world, so it wasn’t all bad. He tried not to think about his packed suitcases or his early morning flight as he played video games with his friends. He was so determined to have a good time while he still could, he even let Clint win a couple of races.

 

Sam woke Steve up at half-past-too-damn-early and drove him to the airport.

“Get their autographs for me!” Sam squealed as they said goodbye. “They’re my very favourite band and I want their babies!” His voice reached an octave that made Steve’s ears hurt – and made everyone in a two-mile radius look at them like they were crazy.

In retaliation, Steve grabbed Sam around the waist and peppered his face with kisses. “Oh, I’m gonna miss you soooo much my wittle boo-boo baby!”

“Ugh, get off me man, that is not cool!” Sam pushed Steve away, but he was laughing and Steve counted that as a victory.

 

The flight was uneventful, if a little uncomfortable (airplanes just weren’t designed for people as big as Steve) and so was the car ride through the darkened streets of Rotterdam. The hotel they stopped at was classy, all glass and metal architecture and Steve was met in the lobby by a blonde with a warm smile who introduced herself as Sharon.

“How was your flight?” she asked as they stepped into the elevator. She pressed the button for the penthouse.

“Fine, thanks,” Steve mumbled. He pushed his hands into his jacket pockets, wishing that the hotel staff hadn’t taken all his luggage and left him awkwardly empty handed.

“That’s good. Do you get carsick?”

The question took Steve a little by surprise. “No, ma’am.”

Sharon smiled. “That’s good. You’ll be travelling with Mr Barnes on his bus for the European dates.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And please call me Sharon, I’m not a million years old.”

Steve gave a chuckle at that, just as the elevator doors slid open to reveal a small luxurious living room and kitchenette, with a short hallway leading to a couple of closed doors.

“I daresay you’ll find Mr Barnes through that door,” Sharon’s smile widened as she stepped back to the elevator. “Your luggage will be brought up momentarily. Have fun.”

The elevator doors closed, leaving Steve alone in the penthouse of a fancy hotel with a rock star.

 _Okay, Steve, you can do this._ Steve took a deep breath. He would just pop his head in, introduce himself and get out of Barnes’ way.

So Steve walked toward the door and knocked quietly. There was no answer, but from the muffled sound of music from within the room, Steve assumed his knock went unheard. So he turned the knob and entered the room, then stopped dead in his tracks at the sight before him.

James Barnes, wearing nothing but tight black leather pants, was leaning over a very naked man on the bed. Dark hair obscured his features as he snorted a line of cocaine off the other man’s chest. He sat back on his haunches, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and his eyes fell on Steve, frozen in the doorway.

“Well, hey there, good looking,” Barnes smirked. “Come to join the party?”

“I… uhm,” Steve stuttered, then abortively whispered; “no.”

“No?” Barnes leaned forward again, to do the next white line, a hand running up his back alerting Steve to the fact that there was a woman on the bed as well, her figure obscured by Barnes.

“No,” Steve said, more empathetically. “Mr Barnes, my name is Steve Rogers, I work for Shield. I’ve been assigned to act as private security for you.”

Barnes frowned. “Private security? I didn’t hire a bodyguard.”

“I did,” said a voice behind Steve. A man entered the bedroom, casting a disapproving glance over the scene in front of him.

“No way, Pierce. I’m not having a fucking boy scout running after me all day.”

“Yes, you are.” The man’s face remained coolly expressionless, but Barnes seemed to shrink under his gaze. He looked to Steve again, blue eyes narrowed, not saying a word as the man named Pierce called in a member of hotel staff to get rid of Barnes’ guests.

Pierce motioned for Barnes and Steve to follow him to the living room, and under the much brighter lights Steve could make out some of the tattoos covering Barnes’s skin, including one covering his arm from shoulder to fingertips that looked like interlocking metal plates, done in shades of grey. Steve could also make out a large white bandage covering a section of Barnes’ stomach.

“Mr Rogers, my name is Alexander Pierce, I am Siberia’s manager.”

Steve shook Pierce’s hand.

“And you’ve met James, albeit a little unconventionally.”

Barnes snorted and sauntered over to the minibar.

Pierce’s eyes followed him, disapproval written clearly on his face, but he didn’t say anything as Barnes pulled a bottle of vodka from the fridge and took a swig.

“So, Mr Rogers, I assume you’ve read the file we sent over?”

“I looked it over. Bias doesn’t help me do my job.”

Pierce frowned, but Steve did not back away. The information in the file was thin and painted Barnes as a tortured artist, when he was clearly a junkie.

“Very well, _Steve,”_ Pierce said as the elevator opened behind him to reveal a member of the hotel staff with Steve’s luggage. Pierce moved to the elevator, saying over his shoulder, “James’ safety is our first priority. He is our greatest asset.”

Steve looked to Barnes and noticed the other man had blanched at Pierce’s words, the bottle of vodka gripped in his white-knuckled hand.

There was an awkward silence as Steve’s luggage was taken to the penthouse’s second bedroom. Finally, when he and Barnes were alone, Steve ventured to speak.

“Look, man, I’m sorry. I thought you knew about me.”

Barnes, who’d been staring into space, met Steve’s eyes with a steely blue gaze.

“Yeah, whatever. Just stay out of my way, okay, Fido?”

Steve bristled at that.

“Maybe you should try being a bit less rude.”

This got a bark of laughter from Barnes and he stepped closer to Steve.

“You were the one who interrupted my threesome, and I’m rude?”

Steve swallowed, and tried to take a step backward, only to find his way blocked by the back of the couch. Barnes was very close to him, close enough for Steve to notice the one of his front teeth was slightly crooked when he smirked.

“So,” Barnes continued, quirking an eyebrow, “how are you going to make that up to me?”


	2. One Hand On The Bottle, The Other A Shaking Fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the band...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Goddamn Electric by Pantera.  
> The song Bucky sings is Blue Study by Stone Sour

_Something takes a part of me._

_Something lost and never seen._

_Every time I start to believe,_

_Something's raped and taken from me... from me._

_Life's got to always be messing with me._

_Can't they chill and let me be free?_

_Can't I take away all this pain._

_I try to every night, all in vain..._

_Sometimes I cannot take this place._

_Sometimes it's my life I can't taste._

_Sometimes I cannot feel my face._

_You'll never see me fall from grace_

_Something takes a part of me._

_You and I were meant to be._

_A cheap fuck for me to lay_

_Something takes a part of me._

_Feeling like a freak on a leash._

_Feeling like I have no release._

_How many times have I felt diseased?_

_Nothing in my life is free..._

 

_\- Freak On A Leash, Korn_

_~_

 

“So,” Barnes continued, quirking an eyebrow, “how are you going to make that up to me?”

 

Steve squared his shoulders and sidestepped Barnes, putting some distance between them.

“Nice try,” Steve’s lip curled.

Barnes pouted, but raised his shoulder in a shrug before lifting the bottle to his lips.

 

 _Yeah,_ Steve thought sourly to himself later, while he was unpacking in his room, _this assignment was going to be so much fun._

Babysitting a petulant man-child junkie rock star was definitely not the reason Steve had gone into private security after the military. Steve made sure his alarm clock was set so he wouldn’t oversleep and miss the band’s early morning rehearsal, then called Sam.

It was midnight local time, but not too late in New York and Sam was still awake.

“He made a pass at me,” Steve said without preamble when Sam answered.

“ _Did you take him up on it?_ ”

“No,” Steve scoffed. “He’s not my type.”

“ _Tall, dark and handsome,_ ” Sam sounded amused, “ _he’s exactly your type, man._ ”

“I don’t go for junkies.”

“ _According to Wikipedia, it’s never been more than a recreational habit._ ”

“I walked in on him doing lines off a guy’s chest.”

Sam guffawed.

“It’s not funny, Sam!” Steve whined.

“ _Maybe you’d find it funnier with his cock in your –_ “

“Sam!” Steve exclaimed in a scandalized tone.

“ _Oh, come on,_ ” Sam said, “ _like you haven’t thought about it._ ”

“I don’t want his cock anywhere near me,” Steve said with distaste.

“Whose cock?” a voice asked behind him.

Steve jumped and dropped his phone, swinging around to face James Barnes lounging in his doorway.

“Justin Bieber’s,” Steve lied, stooping to pick up his phone. He gestured to it, saying, “do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Barnes smirked and stepped into the room to sit on the end of Steve’s bed.

Steve glowered as he put his phone to his ear.

“Sorry, Sam, I gotta go.”

“ _Have fun!_ ” Sam chortled as he hung up.

“Was that your girlfriend?” Barnes asked, toying with the pyjama bottoms Steve had put on the bed to sleep in.

“No,” Steve said.

“Boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

Barnes huffed. “Who even wears pyjamas anymore?”

Steve bit back a retort, instead asking, “why are you in my room?”

Barnes rolled his eyes. “I’m bored. Y’know, you ain’t acting very professionally toward me.”

“I apologise, Mr Barnes,” Steve said with as much bland sarcasm as he could muster.

Barnes snorted. He stopped toying with Steve’s pyjamas, instead leaning back on the bed, supported by his outstretched arms.

Steve motioned toward the bandage on Barnes’ stomach.

“What happened?”

Barnes looked down at it. “I got into a fight. Guy pulled a knife outta nowhere. Which is probably the reason for you being here.”

Steve nodded. He was suddenly having a hard time not looking at the tattoos covering Barnes’ skin.

He noticed a red star on the bicep of Barnes’ left arm, over the metal-plate design. There was something written in Cyrillic across his chest, from collarbone to collarbone, and a large flower and thorn design running across his ribcage and down to one protruding hipbone. Steve’s eyes lingered on a pattern of dark birds peeking over Barnes’ right shoulder, before dropping to the indecipherable writing below his bellybutton. Barnes noticed him looking.

“What?” Barnes demanded, “do you have some self-righteous opposition to tattoos?”

“No,” Steve said, forcing his eyes up to meet Barnes’ gaze. “I have a couple myself.”

Barnes raised his eyebrows, his gaze dropping quickly to Steve’s waist and roaming back up to his face.

“Show me.”

Steve scoffed and shook his head.

“Oh, come on!” Barnes expressive lips turned down in a moue. “You’ve seen mine!”

It was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes. “Everyone with an internet connection has seen yours.”

“Do you Google me often, Rogers?”

“Only when I’m paid to,” Steve shot back.

Barnes gave another petulant little huff. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m not supposed to be fun,” Steve said, with all the patience of someone explaining quantum physics to a three-year-old.

Barnes narrowed his eyes. “Did Pierce tell you to do this?”

“Do what?”

“Be standoffish. Disapproving.”

“No,” Steve said, genuinely surprised, “why would he do that?”

But Barnes didn’t answer, instead he got up off Steve’s bed and stalked to the door, slamming it behind him.

Steve stared at the closed door for a few confused seconds. Barnes seemed to have major issues with Pierce. Maybe he resented his manager’s attempts to get him in line. Steve supposed that a spoilt rock star would hate any constraints placed on his freedom, even if it was done with the best intentions.

Deciding that trying to figure out the politics surrounding his latest client was way too much effort, Steve got ready for bed.

 

~

 

The next morning, Steve dressed in a dark blue button-down and jeans to maintain discretion, then tailed a very grumpy and hungover Barnes (all in black) to the hotel lobby to meet the rest of Siberia.

They were grouped near the reception desk, along with Alexander Pierce, who looked slightly out of place in his grey business suit among the black-clad, tattooed and pierced band members.

Pierce did the introductions.

There was Brock Rumlow, lead guitarist, a dark-haired man only a few inches shorter than Steve, who had an arrogant grin and gripped Steve’s hand a little tighter than necessary.

Then Jack Rollins, bassist, who didn’t say much, but didn’t smile either.

Scott Lang, who did turntables, grinned and poked Steve’s bicep, joking about his workout schedule, before being pushed aside by a man wearing a red and black mask.

“Wade, for the love of God, take that thing off. We haven’t even had breakfast yet,” Barnes said, reaching for the mask.

The man named Wade ducked out of his way, but pulled off the mask as he shook Steve’s hand.

“Name’s Wade W. Wilson, nice to meet ya, Captain America!” he said as his face was revealed. His skin, from his left temple, down below the collar of his shirt was covered in mottled pink and white scar-tissue.

“Captain America?” Steve questioned with a raised eyebrow.

“You look like the American wet dream,” Wade said, then added (at Pierce’s glare), “not that I’d know. I’m Canadian.”

“Can we get some breakfast now?” Barnes interjected before Steve or Pierce could say anything.

“Yes, we can,” Pierce nodded, herding them into the hotel’s restaurant.

 

Breakfast was a slightly noisy affair, what with Scott and Wade getting into a raucous discussion over the best album from a band Steve had never heard of.

“What do you think, Steve?” Wade called across the table to Steve who was sandwiched between Barnes and Scott.

“About what?” Steve asked, pausing with a forkful of omelette halfway to his mouth.

“About Pantera’s best album,” Wade didn’t add the ‘duh’, but it was implied in his tone.

“No idea who that is,” Steve admitted.

Five pairs of eyes turned on Steve with expressions ranging from incredulity to outright horror.

“You’re joking, right?” Barnes uttered.

“Uhm, no.” Steve felt his face turn red. “I don’t really listen to rock music.”

“Metal!” Wade nearly shouted. “It’s called metal! Rock is what the Rolling Stones did.” The anguish in Wade’s voice made Steve want to smile, but he realized in time that that would be a bad move.

“Do you know who the Rolling Stones are?” Scott asked carefully.

“Of course,” Steve said quickly, neglecting to mention he only knew a grand total of three of their songs.

“Do you listen to our music?” Wade put his hand dramatically over his heart.

“Not really,” Steve said quietly.

“Mr Rogers has the right to his own taste in music,” Pierce stated as Barnes, Scott and Rumlow seemed to be about to start shouting.

Wade was staring fixedly at Steve, a heartbroken expression on his face.

The rest of breakfast was tense and Steve felt like he’d made a major tactical error in not listening to the Siberia albums Shield had put in the info packet for this assignment.

 

They drove to the venue of that night’s concert in a large van, Steve manoeuvred by Pierce to sit next to Barnes, with Wade on his other side. The scarred man talked a mile a minute at Barnes over Steve’s head, with Barnes giving a lot of eye rolls and ‘you can’t physically play drums underwater, Wade _’_ s.

 _This was going to be a very long assignment,_ Steve thought to himself.

 

The venue was a large club in a warehouse, right on the water. Steve scanned the area, noting exits and entrances as the trooped through the front door into the brightly lit club. Steve made sure he knew every nook and cranny while the band started sound check and whatever else technical things band did.

When he had the place cased, Steve stood to the side of the stage, leaning against the wall. He watched Barnes fiddle with a microphone, before picking up a guitar and playing a couple of chords. The man stepped up to the mic stand, strumming the guitar, then began singing the Animaniacs theme is a deafening falsetto, with Wade joining in gleefully from behind his drum kit.

“God, James, shut the fuck up!” Rumlow growled.

Barnes made a face, but stopped singing and stepped back from the mic stand to plop down on the stage, the guitar cradled in his lap. He began strumming again, then started singing in a gravelly baritone.

 

“ _Somewhere between my tongue and cheek_

_I can feel the hands on me_

_Pulls me in so we are face to face_

_I don’t wanna see it… I don’t wanna see_

_Hold my head up, can’t avert my eyes_

_Spots and rats on me, I don’t wanna see_

_Claw the ground up, get me out of this_

_Never wanted this…”_

 

“Okay, can we just get sound check over with, please?” Rumlow cut across Barnes, who fell silent.

Steve shifted, feeling irrationally annoyed with Rumlow for interrupting Barnes’ singing. He had a good voice, rough but deep and warm. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to listen to Siberia’s music after all, Steve mused.

“Yeah,” Barnes got to his feet again.

The band made sure all their equipment was in working order, then trooped back to the van with Steve and Pierce in tow.

“Do you stay with the band all the time?” Steve asked Pierce, who shook his head.

“Sharon has some time off this morning, and since it’s your first day, I thought I’d stick around. But I’m flying back to New York tomorrow.”

Steve nodded and allowed himself to be squashed between Barnes and Wade again.

Back at the hotel, Barnes and Steve got into the elevator while the rest of the band went their separate ways. Barnes stayed quiet until they reached the penthouse. Once there, he rounded on Steve.

“Okay, Rogers, take off your clothes.”

 


	3. They Put It In Your Head, Then Put You In Your Bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Fucking Hostile by Pantera.  
> Also, I know only a bare minimum of Dutch, and I've only ever driven through the outskirts of Rotterdam, so please excuse any mistakes.  
> (Also, I chose Rotterdam instead of Amsterdam because it has a more industrial feel.)

_Frail, the skin is dry and pale, the pain will never fail_

_And so we go back to the remedy_

_Clip the wings that get you high, just leave them where they lie_

_And tell yourself, "You'll be the death of me"_

_I don't need a friend, I need to mend so far away_

_So come sit by the fire and play a while, but you can't stay too long_

_It aches in every bone, I'll die alone, but not for pleasure_

_I see my heart explode, it's been eroded by the weather here_

_If you want me hold me back_

 

_\- Remedy, Seether_

_~_

 

_“Okay, Rogers, take off your clothes.”_

 

“I… What, no? Excuse me?” Steve felt himself blush and cursed his Irish blood.

Barnes grinned. “Your clothes, Rogers. We’re going out and you can’t be dressed like that.”

“Out where?” Steve asked.

“Somewhere fun,” Barnes replied, “now go change.”

Steve looked down at his shirt. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“You look like a cop. Just wear something a bit more…” Barnes waved his hand impatiently.

“Black?” Steve suggested.

“Yeah,” Barnes nodded, “like me.”

“Yeah, no can do,” Steve said with a shrug.

“Why not?” Barnes whined in exasperation.

“Because I only own two articles of black clothing, both of which are currently on a different continent,” Steve grudgingly explained.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Barnes threw his hands up. “Come on!”

He turned, stalking to his room, with Steve on his heels.

Barnes started pulling clothes out of the suitcase that was dumped unceremoniously on the floor by the bed. He held up a black shirt, one eye closed to gauge if it would fit Steve, then tossed it aside and picked up another.

“Here,” he said, throwing the shirt at Steve, and turned back to the suitcase.

Steve looked at the picture on the black fabric. “What am I advertising here?”

Barnes lifted his head, a pair of black jeans held out to Steve.

“Cannibal Corpse. Put these on.” He gave the jeans a little shake and Steve took them, still staring at the shirt.

“Cannibal Corpse? That’s disgusting,” Steve grimaced in distaste.

“They make good music. Do you need help getting dressed, or something?” Barnes made little ‘hurry up’ motions with his hands.

Steve sighed and turned to the door, holding the jeans and shirt gingerly.

“Where are you going?” Barnes called after him.

Steve paused, halfway out the door. “To my room to get dressed.”

Barnes rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to jump you in a fugue of lust the moment you show your nipples.”

“I don’t know about that,” Steve threw over his shoulder as the crossed the hallway, “I do have pretty sexy nipples.”

Steve turned to enjoy the dumbfounded expression on Barnes’ face, before closing the door of his room.

He got dressed quickly. The jeans fit okay, but the shirt was at least a size too small. Steve stuck his tongue out at his reflection in the mirror, before pulling his black Converse All-Stars from the bottom of his suitcase. He silently thanked Natasha for making him buy them.

Fully dressed, Steve opened his door to find Barnes leaning against the wall opposite his room.

Barnes looked him up and down appraisingly for a moment, then nodded and said, “That’ll do, Pig.”

Steve snorted as he took the black hoodie Barnes was holding out to him, but didn’t put it on.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Steve said as he pushed the button to summon the elevator, but Barnes grabbed his outstretched arm.

“What’s that?” he tugged Steve’s arm closer, to inspect the dark shape on the inside of his bicep.

“It’s a tattoo,” Steve stated the obvious.

“No shit,” Barnes ran his fingers over the inked lines and Steve felt his cheeks grow warm as goose bumps erupted over his skin. “But what is it?”

Steve looked at Barnes closely inspecting the eagle-and-crest design with the Latin inscription.

“It was my unit’s insignia, in the military.”

“ _Semper Fi_ ,” Barnes said under his breath, then added, louder, “I should’ve known your tat would be something like this.”

Steve shrugged, grateful that the elevator doors chose that moment to open and Barnes let go of his arm.

“Special forces?” Barnes questioned on the way down.

“Yeah,” Steve nodded, feeling the familiar heaviness come to rest on his shoulders as he thought about his military days.

Barnes stayed quiet, chewing on his bottom lip, his gaze drifting.

The elevator let them out in the hotel lobby and Barnes led the way outside and up the street.

“Mr Barnes, you still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Steve reminded him.

“We’re going to see a friend of mine,” Barnes answered impatiently, “and for the love of God, don’t call me ‘Mr Barnes’.”

“What should I call you, then?”

Barnes turned a corner and headed for a bus stop, pulling his hood up when a young woman looked at him a beat too long.

“My name is Bucky,” he said, sitting down on the bench.

“Bucky?” Steve raised an eyebrow, taking a seat next to him. “Thought your name was James?”

“My middle name is Buchanan.”

“Okay. Bucky it is, then,” Steve replied.

Barnes- no, Bucky. Bucky was fidgeting beside him, scratching at his forearm. When he saw Steve looking, he tucked his hands beneath his thighs. Before Steve could comment, a bus pulled up to the curb and Bucky got to his feet. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket as he boarded.

“ _Mag ik twee kaartjes, alstublieft_?” he asked the driver, handing over money.

“You speak Dutch?” Steve asked in surprise as they sat down next to each other near the back of the bus.

“Not very well,” Bucky replied.

Steve nodded. Languages had never been his strong suit.

Bucky pulled out his phone, but only checked the time before shoving it back in his pocket.

Steve couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “Are you okay?” he asked Bucky.

“Yeah,” the other man said, pasting on a smile that definitely didn’t fool Steve. “What makes you think I’m not?”

“You’re twitchy, distracted. Is it withdrawal?”

“No,” Bucky answered.

Steve narrowed his eyes.

“It’s not withdrawal,” Bucky insisted.

“What then?”

“Nothing,” Bucky was scowling now, “just drop it.”

“You know what? Fine.”

“Fine.”

The bus turned a corner and pulled into a large bus and train hub. They got off and Bucky led the way to another bus terminal and onto a second bus that took them to the inner city, all in stony silence.

They got off the bus and walked half a block, coming to a halt outside an apartment building.

Bucky turned on Steve.

“If they ask, I picked you up in a bar last night, okay?”

“No, not okay!” Steve exclaimed.

“If you tell them you’re my bodyguard, we’ll both end up on the bottom of a _gracht_ in Amsterdam.”

“Right,” Steve said incredulously.

“Bodyguards to them are synonymous with cops. They have effective ways of keeping the cops away.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

Bucky huffed out a sigh.

“They are people who work with my dealer.”

Steve was aghast. “No. Absolutely not. We are going back to the hotel right now.”

“No!” Bucky grabbed Steve’s wrist, his fingers icy. “If you don’t come with me, or you rat me out, I will make damn sure you lose your job.”

There was a gleam in Bucky’s eyes that made Steve take him seriously. Still, he did not approve of drugs.

“I’m not breaking the law for you, Barnes,” he hissed.

Bucky’s expression changed. “Look, I just need enough to get me through tonight. For the rest of the tour I’ll be fine.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“I never use on tour.”

“What makes tonight so special then?” Steve questioned.

“Pierce leaves tomorrow,” Bucky said the words unwillingly.

“You’re blaming Pierce for _your_ drug habit?” Steve all but sneered.

“I don’t expect you to understand things this far above your paygrade,” Bucky said sarcastically.

“You know what, _Mr Barnes,_ you are just a lying junkie.”

This seemed to move Bucky to real anger. His features twisted as he spat out the words. “Don’t ever, _ever_ call me a liar!”

Bucky’s face had drained of colour, his breathing heavy.

“But you are an addict,” Steve stated.

Bucky seemed ready to punch him. “I need this.”

Steve ran his hands through his hair. “Why?”

“It’s only for tonight,” Bucky repeated, instead of answering the question. “I’ll be clean for the rest of the tour.”

“And after the tour?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know.” Beneath the anger, Bucky was clearly miserable.

“Okay,” Steve started, already hating himself for what he was about to say, “I play along now, but if I catch you using even once during this tour, I turn you in.”

Bucky stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

“Also,” Steve added, “I’m not pretending to be your hook-up.”

“Fine,” Bucky conceded, “old friend, then?”

Steve nodded, wondering what the hell he’s let himself in for.

 

They entered the building, taking the stairs to the sixth floor. Bucky walked ahead of Steve to apartment number sixty-eight, where he stopped to knock.

He turned back to Steve, lightly tugging at the hem of the Cannibal Corpse shirt.

“It suits you, you know.”

“Black’s not really my colour,” Steve muttered just as the door opened to reveal a young man with shoulder-length red hair.

“James!” he exclaimed, face breaking open in a smile. His outstretched arms were black and blue and covered in track marks.

Bucky greeted him in Dutch, stepping into the apartment, with Steve following close behind. There was a short conversation, where Steve could make out his name, while Bucky motioned to him. Steve raised his hand in a half-wave.

They were ushered through to the living room. A girl, gaunt and ill-looking sat on the couch. Bucky walked over to her, saying something in a low voice that made her smile. He kissed her bony hand before straightening and turning back to the red-haired man.

Bucky pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and the man handed him a small canvas bag. Bucky smiled.

“ _Dank je wel_ ,” he said, then he and Steve were leaving.

 

They took the same two buses back to the hotel in tense silence.

Bucky deposited the canvas bag in his room, then they went back downstairs to have lunch with the band and Pierce.

Scott and Wade exclaimed over Steve’s wardrobe change, while Rumlow sneered and Rollins remained stoic as ever.

At the end of the meal, Pierce leaned over to say something in Bucky’s ear and the dark-haired man nodded, looking unhappy. Steve caught his eye, but Bucky just glowered and looked away again.


	4. Come Meet Your Maker, Boy, Some Things You Can't Enjoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Fucking Hostile by Pantera.   
> The song Steve recognizes is Sweet Child O' Mine by Guns 'n Roses (and I apologize for changing the lyrics, I had a good reason).  
> The lyrics Bucky sings were written by me when I was 16, so I thoroughly ask for your forgiveness for their horribleness.

_Woke up and I feel like shit_

_I don't remember last night, I'm getting sick of this_

_I hit the bottle when I got off stage_

_And got piss drunk stupid and went in a rage_

_I think I mighta got into a fight_

_Because my knuckles were bloody and I don't feel alright_

_I hit the bottom and I don't even care_

_Some say I'm going to hell but I'm already there_

_Sick and tired of being sick and tired_

_I wanna be free from this ball and chain and_

_Be free from this life of pain and_

_Be free from this ball and chain_

_I wanna be free from you_

 

_\- Be Free, Papa Roach_

_~_

 

The club was packed, dark figures moving under the strobe lights to the music pumping from the speakers, as the band waited to go on stage.

Bucky fiddled with his guitar strap, dressed in black leather pants and a sleeveless black shirt. He didn’t seem nervous, but Steve watched him carefully just the same. Pierce had stayed behind at the hotel and Steve was rather glad that he wasn’t looking over his shoulder the entire time.

“Three minutes, guys!” a girl called in a heavily accented voice, just as the music stopped and the club DJ started speaking to the crowd in rapid Dutch.

“You should have kept the t-shirt on,” Bucky told Steve as the band lined up to step out on stage. He had been annoyed at Steve’s choice to change back into his own clothes, but Steve had been adamant.

“It’s not really _me,_ you know,” Steve replied.

“You’re no fun!” Bucky called as he walked onto the stage behind the rest of the band.

Steve stayed in the wings, since the club’s own security were stationed at the sides of the stage and by all the exits. He leaned against a support beam and watched as Bucky stepped up to the mic stand, guitar swung carelessly across his back.

“Goedenavond, Rotterdam!” he shouted to deafening reaction. “Hoe gaat het met jullie vanavond?” He spoke more Dutch, before swinging his guitar around to start their first song.

The instrumentals were a heavy thud in the darkened club, but then Bucky started singing and Steve found it difficult to look away. His voice was something between a growl and a shout, the words hard to make out. It sounded painful to Steve, but at the same time the music wasn’t unpleasant. For all its heaviness, there was a melody underneath and when the song slowed, Bucky’s cleaner vocals rose out of the din better than some mainstream singers’.

 

“ _My demons playing hide-and-seek_

_With confusion in my mind_

_Running circles, going crazy_

_Lost in places I can’t find…_ ”

 

Bucky’s body was moving in time with the bass line, his skin already shining with sweat under the glare of the lights. It was only after three more songs, when Bucky was talking to the audience between sips of water and the music has died down for a bit, that Steve realized he’d been neglecting his duties to stare at the man onstage. Mentally berating himself, Steve did a quick walkthrough of the backstage area, then a check of all the exits and the office the band were using as a dressing room for the night. He dodged techies and club employees as he went, grabbing a bottle of water, and returned to his spot backstage.

Bucky said something to the crowd that elicited an ear-splitting reaction, then Rumlow started playing a riff Steve actually recognised.

 

“ _He’s got a smile that it seems to me_

_Reminds me of childhood memories_

_Where everything was as fresh as_

_The bright blue sky_

_Now and then, when I see his face_

_He takes me away to that special place_

_And if I stared too long_

_I’d probably break down and cry_

_Oh, oh, oh… sweet child o’ mine_

_He’s got eyes of the bluest skies_

_As if they thought of rain…_ ”

 

Steve’s breath caught in his throat. Bucky had turned toward where he was standing for a moment, and Steve had imagined that he’d sung that line to him. Then he shook his head, because that was just stupid. He did not miss Bucky’s use of male pronouns though.

The band’s performance ended just after midnight. They trooped to the back door, signing autographs and taking selfies on the way with the lucky fans who had access, while Steve shadowed Bucky at an unobtrusive distance.

One fan, a young woman who spoke English with a strong Irish accent, showed Bucky a tattoo on her arm. She’d gotten Siberia’s lyrics inked over her self-harm scars, she told him. For a moment Bucky seemed utterly speechless, then he pulled her into a tight hug, whispering in her ear for long seconds before letting go and suggesting a selfie. She nodded, her eyes shining with tears.

Bucky made a beeline for the van after that and Steve stayed close behind him, sliding into the seat next to his. The other man had his head bowed, his sweat-soaked hair falling forward, obscuring his face, but the set of his shoulders and the way he clenched and unclenched his fists made it obvious that he was upset.

“You okay?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky nodded.

“It’s strange, that people sometimes tell me our music helped them.” His voice was hoarse.

“That’s good, though,” Steve said.

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

The band piled into the van, all seeming energized by the show.

“After party?” Scott asked.

Everyone agreed but Bucky, who claimed he was feeling the onset of laryngitis. Since his voice was nearly gone, they didn’t argue, but Wade did shoot him a worried glance over the back of his seat.

Back in the penthouse, Bucky shut himself in his room, music blaring.

Steve sat on the couch and texted Sam.

 

**You: How’s Brooklyn?**

**Sam: Better now you’re gone**

**You: Thanks, pal. You make me feel so appreciated**

**Sam: How’s Europe?**  
  


**You: Very continental.**

**Sam: How’s the rockstar?**

**You: Honestly, kind of troubling.**

Steve’s phone buzzed with Sam’s reply at the same time the elevator dinged open, revealing Pierce. Steve got to his feet.

“Where’s James?” he asked without preamble.

“In his room, sir,” Steve said, “I’ll go get him.”

He walked over and knocked on Bucky’s door. The music stopped at once, but the door didn’t open. Steve knocked again.

“Mr Barnes,” he called, “Mr Pierce is here to see you.”

Steve heard footsteps, then the door opened. Bucky was wearing sweat pants and a soft grey t-shirt, his eyes a little too bright, the pupils dilated into miniature black holes. He was obviously high. He didn’t say anything, merely brushed past Steve.

“I’ll be borrowing James for a couple of hours, we have some scheduling to figure out, calls to other time zones to make.”

Steve nodded.

Bucky was already in the elevator, and Pierce moved to follow.

“Get some room service, Mr Rogers,” he said genially as the doors slid closed, “have a little fun.”

Left alone, Steve stood for a long minute, frowning at nothing. The way Pierce had told Steve to have fun reminded him of Bucky saying ‘you’re no fun’, but for some reason it made Steve’s skin crawl. Finally deciding, again, that putting too much thought into the politics surrounding this assignment would do no one any good, Steve picked up the phone on the side table and ordered room service.

While he waited, he opened Sam’s text.

 

**Sam: Is he in trouble, or trouble for you?**

**You: Both.**

 

Steve sighed. Trouble was a very apt word for Bucky Barnes.

 

Steve was in bed, drifting somewhere between sleeping and waking, when he heard Bucky return to the penthouse. He listened to the other man’s slow footsteps, then the loud click as the door to Bucky’s room was closed. Steve was almost asleep again when a loud _thud_ from across the hall forced him back to awareness. A second thud had him on his feet, and he was halfway across the hall when the third came.

“Bucky?!” he called, already turning the doorknob. It swung open to reveal Bucky slumped in a heap against the wall, a bottle of whiskey next to him, half-empty. At Steve’s entrance he gave a lopsided smile.

“Hey, Stevie,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse, almost gone. “I hurt my hand.”

He held out his left hand, the knuckles raw, from where he must have punched the wall.

“Yeah, you did,” Steve said gently, “sit tight, I’ll be right back, okay?”

Steve got the small first-aid kit from the bathroom, then returned to where Bucky was still sitting. He had his eyes closed, dark hair pushed back behind his ears, and for the first time Steve noticed the two metal rings adorning each earlobe. Steve knelt in front of him, rummaging in the kit for rubbing alcohol and gauze, then took Bucky’s hand. The other man’s eyes opened, watching Steve intently, his pupils still blown wide, hiding the blue of his irises.

“This is gonna sting,” Steve warned, before touching the gauze to the abrasions across Bucky’s knuckles. There was a sleepy kind of silence while Steve dabbed antibiotic ointment on Bucky’s skin, then checked his right hand, which seemed fine, aside from several tiny scars covering his fingers.

“They’re from playing guitar,” Bucky answered Steve’s unspoken question, his voice slurring a little.

Steve suddenly realized he was in fact holding James Barnes’ hand, blushed and moved away, gathering up the first-aid supplies. He stood up, then reached down and helped Bucky to his feet.

“Come on, Buck, let’s get you into bed,” he huffed as Bucky leaned nearly all his weight on him.

“Gee, Stevie, you’re not even gonna buy me dinner first?”

Steve gave a little chuckle, depositing Bucky on the bed.

“Maybe some other time,” Steve told him as he tucked the duvet around him. “Now get some sleep.”

Bucky’s eyes were closed, already drifting off. “Thanks, Stevie.”

Steve smiled, watching Bucky sleep for a minute until he realized he was being super creepy, and went back to his own bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want Siberia to do a cover of a song in every show, so unless you want it to be Guns 'n Roses every chapter, I'm begging you to leave suggestions in the comments! (Any rock or metal song will do)


	5. Well I Guess You Took My Youth, I Gave It All Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Cemetery Gates by Pantera.

_This disease is getting worse._

_I counted my blessings, now I'll count this curse._

_The only thing I really know: I can't sleep at night._

_I'm buried and breathing in regret._

_I've got a secret._

_It's on the tip of my tongue, it's on the back of my lungs._

_And I'm gonna keep it._

_I know something you don't know._

_I may look happy, but honestly dear,_

_the only way I'll really smile is if you cut me ear to ear._

_I see the vultures, they watch me bleed._

_They lick their lips, as all the shame spills out of me._

_Repent! Repent! The end is nigh!_

_Repent! Repent! We're all gonna die!_

_Repent! Repent! These secrets will kill us!_

_So get on your knees, and pray for forgiveness!_

_We all carry these things inside that no one else can see._

_They hold us down like anchors. They drown us out at sea._

_I look up to the sky, there may be nothing there to see._

_But if I don't believe in him, why would he believe in me?_

 

_\- Chelsea Smile, Bring Me The Horizon_

The next morning Pierce left before breakfast to catch his flight to New York and Sharon joined them for the meal. She was wearing a white shirt with Siberia’s tree logo, which was more or less her uniform, she told Steve.

Bucky seemed to be in a much better mood than the previous day.

 

“Are you serious?” he’d asked Steve, gesturing to his light blue button up and tan slacks, as they’d left the penthouse that morning.

“Very,” Steve had replied flippantly.

“You’re no fun,” Bucky had complained yet again, and coming from him it was sort of endearing, instead of leaving Steve cold the way Pierce had done the previous night.

 

After breakfast, Bucky led Steve outside into the sunshine.

“Where are we going today?” Steve asked apprehensively.

“Sightseeing,” Bucky replied, “we’re just waiting for Wade.”

“Right here!” Wade crowed, exiting the hotel. He was wearing a black and red t-shirt that showed off his muscled arms as well as the scar tissue that covered his left bicep and forearm.

They started walking down the sidewalk, Wade giving a little skip every now and then, because he was apparently the foul-mouthed embodiment of Tigger.

“Hey, Bucky,” Wade said suddenly, stopping dead in his tracks. His eyes had gone comically wide. It was the first time Steve had heard one of the band call him Bucky instead of James.

“Yes, Wade?” Bucky said, rather cautiously.

“I won our bet!” Wade exclaimed.

“No, you didn’t,” Bucky said, but he didn’t seem too sure.

“Yes, I did!” Wade said triumphantly. “Last night made two weeks!”

“Okay, fine,” Bucky grumbled, then, at Steve’s uncomprehending look, added, “I bet Wade he couldn’t go two weeks without doing something nasty to a unicorn.”

“A unicorn?” Steve questioned.

“He has a fetish,” Bucky said offhandedly.

“Unicorns are majestic creatures,” Wade defended, “they deserve to be erotically worshipped.”

“Of course they do,” Steve said weakly, blushing.

Bucky laughed and clapped Steve on the shoulder.

“So, Bucky,” Wade started, but Bucky cut him off.

“Nothing below the waist, Wade,” he said sternly and Wade sagged.

“But you’d look so hot with a Jacob’s Ladder!”

Bucky shrugged, but said, “still, above the waist only.”

“But, Bucky! A Jacob’s Ladder!”

“A Jacob’s Ladder?” Steve knew he was going to regret asking.

“Our Mr Rogers is an innocent, it seems,” Wade said, while Bucky typed something into his phone.

“It’s a piercing,” Bucky said, turning his phone to show Steve an image that forced all the air from his lungs.

“Oh,” Steve said, “I knew I shouldn’t have asked.” Because now he was suddenly imagining Bucky with that piercing, and Bucky fucking him with that piercing and he needed to stop that right now, because Bucky was his employer and an addict, the two things that Steve _definitely_ avoided having sexual thoughts about.

“Come on,” Bucky said, laughing again, and started walking.

Wade Googled a good place to get piercings and they took a bus there.

It was a small, brightly lit tattoo parlour. The girl behind the counter had skin the colour of dark chocolate and greeted them with a brilliant smile.

Wade told her his friend would like a nipple ring.

“No, Wade, come on! Those hurt like a bitch!” Bucky protested, but started filling out the consent form anyway, while the girl went to call the piercer.

He was a skinny guy, covered in colourful tattoos and multiple piercings, as well as large gauges in his ears. He introduced himself as Levi, and spoke English with barely an accent, since he’d spent a couple of years in America, he informed them as he readied his workstation.

“I still miss the apple pie,” Levi said, shooting Steve a blatantly flirtatious grin, which made Steve blush (yet again), but Bucky gave a frown.

“Steve?” Wade questioned as he pulled out his wallet to pay for Bucky’s piercing, watching the little interaction between Steve and the piercer. “Which side of the rainbow are you on, exactly?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Steve admitted.

“He’s asking if you think all non-heterosexual people are vile sinners,” Bucky filled in, signing the form and putting down the pen.

“Oh,” Steve lifted one shoulder and, figuring the openly bisexual James Barnes wouldn’t beat him up like the kids in high school, said, “I’m gay, so, no.”

“Captain America is gay?!” Wade exclaimed. “This is the best day ever!”

But Bucky was taking off his shirt to reveal an abstract black and red tattoo covering his back that Steve hadn’t noticed previously, and Steve was a little distracted, barely feeling Wade clapping him on the back.

He pulled himself together before anyone noticed, and looked away as Bucky sat down on the chair Levi had pulled closer.

Steve couldn’t, however, keep his eyes away as Levi did the piercing. Bucky seemed not to mind all that much as the thick needle was forced through the delicate, light brown flesh of his nipple, although he let out a frankly sexual groan.

Wade was staring intently at Steve when they left the tattoo shop fifteen minutes later.

“Do I have something in my teeth, Wade?” he asked.

“No,” Wade said, “but… as much as that colour brings out the blue of your eyes… if you’re gonna work for Bucky, you need a wardrobe change.”

“I really don’t,” Steve sighed.

“You really do,” Wade insisted, then added, “pretty please let us give you a makeover?”

“Why?!”

“Because firstly, this is a rock star AU, and secondly, everyone is staring at us because we look like two Satan-worshippers who are kidnapping a wholesome virgin to sacrifice.”

“If you were Satanists, you’d be out of luck, I’m not a virgin,” Steve said.

“Nevertheless, you are getting a makeover,” Wade asserted.

“Just go with it, pal,” Bucky said, gingerly holding his shirt away from his chest. “He’ll never stop.”

“Let’s go!” Wade called, already half a block away.

“C’mon,” Bucky nudged Steve and they followed Wade into a store that looked like the European version of Hot Topic.

Wade tossed Steve a bundle of black fabric, and Steve checked the tag. “Wade, this is two sizes too small!” he called to the man half-hidden behind a mannequin.

“It’s to show off your muscles, duh!” Wade yelled back.

“Oh, no. No,” Steve said, “if you’re gonna make me wear this, it has to fit properly.”

“Fine,” Wade groused, replacing the shirt Steve was holding with another one bearing a picture of a weird white mask, before hurrying off again.

“What band is this?” Steve asked Bucky.

“Very funny, Rogers.”

Steve looked at the shirt, frowning. “What?”

Now Bucky was frowning, too. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, puzzled.

“It’s a Stormtrooper.”

“A what?” Steve felt like he was missing something very obvious.

“Oh God,” Bucky’s expression was one of dawning horror, “please don’t tell me you’ve never seen Star Wars.”

For what felt like the millionth time that day, Steve went red. “I haven’t. My roommate keeps telling me to, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

Bucky shook his head in disbelief. “Wade’s going to kill you. He loves Star Wars.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve offered.

Bucky was smiling a bit now. “Just take the shirt and don’t say anything compromising. We’ll watch it on the bus tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, a little surprised at Bucky coming to his rescue.

Nearly an hour later, Wade and Bucky had assembled a pile of clothes (not all black, thankfully) that would surely not fit in Steve’s suitcase, but Wade had pulled out his wallet, handed the cashier his card, and was pointedly ignoring Steve’s protests.

“I’ll pay, Wade,” Steve contended, but it was Bucky who replied.

“Wade’s richer than God, just say ‘thank you’.”

“Listen to Bucky,” Wade said when Steve opened his mouth to argue.

“Thanks, Wade.”

After their shopping trip, they went back to the hotel and Steve was coerced into changing into the Stormtrooper shirt and black jeans, before they went out again to get lunch and finally go sightseeing.

 

That night, Bucky helped Steve fit all his new clothes into his suitcase. Amused, he watched Steve try to compress the neatly folded shirts into the small space.

“What did they teach you in the army, Stevie?” he asked, gently shoving Steve away. He started rolling up the shirts, placing them one by one into the suitcase. “Because you need to ask for a refund.”

Steve huffed out a laugh.

Somehow, miraculously, Bucky managed to get all Steve’s clothes to fit in the case.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” Bucky told him.

Steve nodded. So far he’d studiously made sure his and Bucky’s bathroom schedules didn’t clash, since the penthouse only had one and Steve did not think he could handle walking in on Bucky in such a delicate situation.

Steve sat on his bed, lost in thoughts about the tour and exactly how weird it was going to be living on a bus with five other guys and Sharon for more than a month. He had been used to living in close quarters in the military, but there had been a code of strict discipline and _neatness_ , which Steve was sure didn’t apply to the band.

A voice brought him out of his thoughts, and he realized it was Bucky, singing in the shower. Steve listened in surprise for a second, before pulling out his phone and typing the words of the song into Google. ‘Inhale’ by a band called Stone Sour. Steve bit his lip, telling himself he was only adding the song to his Siberia related playlist as research for the assignment.

Before he could listen to it, Bucky’s head – hair still wet and hanging in his face – popped around the door.

“Have you ever watched Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey?”

“No,” Steve said, feeling idiotic again.

Bucky sighed. “Well, come on then, Gramps.”

“Gramps?” Steve said incredulously. “I’m younger than you!”

“You are?” Bucky questioned as Steve followed him to the living area.

“Yup,” Steve popped his lips on the ‘p’. “By sixteen months.”

“Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed, what with you being from the Stone Age and never having seen Star Wars and all.”

“What’s so special about it, anyway?” Steve asked defensively, as he sat down.

“You’ll see when we watch it,” Bucky said, flopping down on the couch next to Steve and flicking through Netflix, while saying; “okay, so Bogus Journey is the sequel to Excellent Adventure, but that’s just a run-of-the-mill ‘time travelling to do your history homework’ movie, and Journey is just _so_ much better and it has literally everything, the Grim Reaper and aliens and robots and why are you looking at me like that?”

Steve had been staring at him, a slow smile on his lips.

“You are a dork!” Steve declared, a little triumphantly. “James Barnes, the infamous and notorious rock star… is a gigantic nerd!” He crowed with laughter.

“Shut up,” Bucky muttered, hitting him with a throw pillow, his cheeks going pink, but he seemed to take it as a compliment anyway.

Bucky had somehow procured popcorn and soda, which impressed Steve, who had struggled getting room service the previous night.

They watched the movie and Steve had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing every time Bucky played air guitar.

 

After the movie, Bucky sang ‘God Gave Rock & Roll to You’ at the top of his voice while he made them coffee in the kitchenette.

Steve leaned back on the couch, listening to Bucky and pulled out his phone. There were several texts, two from Sam, one from Clint and one from Natasha.

 

**Sam: Hey, man, how’s it going?**

**Sam: Clint misses you. He’s hanging out here and eating all our food**

 

Clint had sent six bird emoji’s followed by a thumbs-up emoji.

 

**Nat: You better call me**

 

Steve sat up, dialling Nat’s number.

“ _Good, you’re still alive_ ,” she said in lieu of a greeting.

“Maybe not,” Steve said, “I could be an evil robot version of myself sent from the future to kill the human me.”

“ _Did someone finally get you to watch Terminator?_ ” Nat asked.

“Nope,” Steve said, as Bucky returned, two mugs in his hands.

“ _You suck_ ,” she told him.

“You sound just like Mr Barnes,” Steve replied, accepting his mug with a smile, mouthing ‘thank you’ at Bucky.

“ _Mr Barnes, huh?_ ” Natasha said, her tone teasing. “ _Does he ask you to call him that in bed, too?_ ”

Beside Steve, Bucky let out a snort. He’d obviously heard Nat over Steve’s too-loud phone speaker.

“Now, Nat, jealousy isn’t a good look for you,” Steve said sagely.

“ _Fuck you, Rogers_ ,” she told him.

“Language!” Steve admonished and Natasha hissed something in Russian that Steve didn’t understand, but made Bucky’s eyes widen.

 

“You speak Russian, too?” Steve asked after he had ended the call a few minutes later.

Bucky nodded, looking at Steve through his lashes as he sipped his coffee.

“How many languages do you speak?” Steve probed, angling his body toward Bucky.

“Uhh…” Bucky counted on his fingers, “English, Russian, Romanian, German, French, Serbian and a little Dutch, Spanish, Japanese, a little of each Scandinavian language and Hungarian. Oh, and like two phrases in Mandarin.”

Steve stared at him in awe for a moment, and Bucky looked away, fidgeting with his mug.

“That’s pretty awesome,” Steve told him when he finally found his voice. “Is it a hobby?”

“Not really,” Bucky said, “I lived and worked in Russia for a few years before I joined the band. It was kind of required for the job I had.”

“Were you a spy, or something?” Steve joked.

“Now, Stevie, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is to give you an idea of Bucky's back [tattoo](https://buenavistatattooclub.de/tattoo-gallery)
> 
> And [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frenum_piercing#Frenum_ladder) is a Jacob's Ladder, although Steve was picturing it with barbells, instead of rings. 
> 
> Lastly, I wrote this before that idiotic #givecaptainamericaaboyfriend thing, and seriously considered changing Wade's 'Captain America is gay?" line because of it. Canonically, Cap is hetero, and that SHOULDN'T change just because teenagers on Tumblr want it to.


	6. Crucified For No Sins, An Image Beneath Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Cemetery Gates by Pantera.
> 
> The lyrics sung by Bucky were written by me when I was 16, please excuse their awfulness.

_Cast the calming apple_

_Up and over satellites_

_To draw out the timid wild one_

_To convince you it's alright_

_And I listen for the whisper_

_Of your sweet insanity while I formulate_

_Denials of your effect on me_

_You're a stranger_

_So what do I care_

_You vanish today_

_Not the first time I hear_

_All the lies_

_What am I to do with all this silence_

_Shy away, shy away phantom_

_Run away terrified child_

_Won't you move away you fucking tornado_

_I'm better off without you_

_Tearing my will down_

_\- The Stranger, A Perfect Circle_

_~_

The bus was more of a tiny house on wheels. It had eight bunks, a bathroom with a shower, two couches, a large flat screen TV and a kitchenette with a fully stocked fridge. Steve got the bunk above Bucky’s, already made up with black sheets and a fluffy red blanket, which Bucky immediately swapped for the blue one on his bunk.

“Blue is your color, after all,” Bucky teased.

“Right you are, Mr Barnes,” Steve said in his best bored-butler voice.

Bucky laughed. “Come along then, Alfred.”

Steve grinned and followed Bucky to the couch, where he was subjected to four Star Wars movies back to back – “we’re not wasting time on the prequels, but you should watch Episode VII,” asserted Bucky – which lasted them most of the way to Prague.

For most of the movie marathon, Steve was distracted by watching Bucky, who seemed absolutely engrossed in the story, eyes wide.

He was treading dangerous ground, Steve knew, becoming this friendly with a client, this… attached. It would only cause problems down the line, but Steve was damned if he wasn’t enjoying this, whatever it was.

The rest of the band and Sharon joined them intermittently. Scott and Wade made lightsaber noises and imitated Darth Vader’s voice (and spoiled the big reveal for Steve), while Rumlow made a vulgar comment about Leia’s slave outfit and Jabba the Hut, at which Rollins chuckled.

Through this, Steve hugged a little throw-pillow to his chest and tried to ignore the heat of Bucky’s thigh pressed against his.

 

They checked into a large, ancient looking hotel in Prague, Steve and Bucky got a suite.

(“Not the penthouse again, thank God,” Bucky muttered.)

They didn’t linger too long before heading off to bed, since they had an early morning meetup with fans.

 

The next morning, Steve heard Bucky sing in the shower again, and halted his steps to listen (and Google). Steve added Hypnotize by System Of A Down to his playlist before opening the door for room service.

 

“Oh, coffee, how I love thee,” Bucky said through a yawn as he sat at the little table opposite Steve, his dark hair dripping onto his t-shirt. Steve glanced at him through his lashes as he sipped coffee.

Scarce a week into this assignment, and the domesticity of the situation was screaming ‘trouble’ at Steve, who’d never experienced any sort of attraction to his clients. It was disconcerting and Steve mentally gave himself a little shake. He refused to be attracted to Bucky. He utterly refused.

Then Bucky bit into a cherry Danish and made an indecent sound of enjoyment and Steve’s resolve crumbled right along with the pastry.

So maybe he was a bit attracted to Bucky? He could deal with it, and in a few months’ time their paths would diverge. Steve would go back to standing unobtrusively behind powerful men and Bucky would remain here, in his little bubble of fame and decadence. And if the thought of that clenched painfully in Steve’s chest, well, he’d deal with that too.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Bucky said suddenly, eyebrow quirked, a tiny spot of red cherry at the corner of his smiling mouth that made Steve want to lick it off. Maybe finally admitting his attraction to himself had made it worse?

“I’m not that cheap,” Steve scoffed, “my thoughts are worth at least a dime, maybe even a quarter.”

“Do you take American Express?”

Steve cracked up. Yup, Bucky was definitely trouble.

 

Siberia were playing that evening in a huge theatre that seemed ready to fracture at the onslaught of music from the amplifiers.

Again, Steve found it hard to look away from Bucky. Especially as they started a slow song, all the lights dimming aside from an icy blue beam that illuminated Bucky, his figure unnaturally still except for the hands strumming his guitar.

 

“ _Locked inside my cage_

_Where I can’t see sun_

_Locked inside my cage_

_And I’m the only one_

_Locked inside my cage_

_I feel it inside me_

_Locked inside my cage_

_I don’t want it, set it free_

_And I pray and I wait_

_And I pray for something more than fate_

_I can’t see the sun, cannot feel the rain_

_I can’t see the sun, left with all this pain_

_Locked inside the cage they call my mind_

_And I pray and I pray and I pray… this time…”_

All eyes were on Bucky, the crown singing his words right back to him and Steve realized why they loved Siberia, loved Bucky, so much. How could they not? How could anyone not love someone who bared their souls – their humanity – like this? Made themselves so incredibly vulnerable and did it so fearlessly.

After the slow song, the band broke into Welcome To The Jungle by Guns ‘n Roses, a karaoke favourite of Clint’s. Sharon had showed Steve how they used Twitter polls so the fans could choose the covers the band performed. He’d expressed interest in the more technical aspects of the music industry on this side of pop, since it did seem to function differently here, where looks, charts, Grammys and singles mattered less and touring became a band’s best bet on long-term survival.

The show ended just after midnight, and this time when Wade suggested going to a club Bucky agreed.

True to his word, it seemed Bucky didn’t do drugs on tour, flatly refusing when Rumlow offered him a bump. Rumlow rolled his eyes, mumbling something about hypocrisy and ‘being a good boy’ which earned him glares from both Bucky and Wade.

The drugs thing, however, did not stretch to alcohol. Steve had a high tolerance for alcohol, something much revered among his friends, but Steve was sure Bucky could drink him under the table and still remain standing.

Seeing Bucky drink, now, put that night in Rotterdam into sharp relief for Steve. Bucky had been high, but otherwise coherent, when Pierce had come for him, but utterly wasted when he got back. Steve was sure Pierce wouldn’t have let Bucky drink that much while discussing business. Had Bucky taken something else? Had he left the hotel without Steve knowing? The thought pulled Steve’s brows together.

“Hey, come on!” Bucky’s voice suddenly sounded in his ear, too loud, too close. Steve could feel his warm breath. “Have a drink, it’ll wipe that frown off your face.”

“I can’t drink, I’m working,” Steve reminded him, but with a smile.

“You’re no fun!” Bucky complained, lifting yet another shot to his lips.

Steve just turned his blandest expression on Bucky, earning him a groan and a light shove, which in turn made Steve grin.

At the end of the night (which was four o’clock the next morning), Steve trailed Bucky into the elevator in the hotel.

Bucky smiled lazily at him. “Do you ever let your hair down, Steve?”

“Sure,” Steve gave a half-shrug, “but not when I’m working.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into the hallway. Bucky slung his arm around Steve’s shoulders as they weaved their way toward their room. Steve stayed quiet as Bucky hummed a tune. For several lazy seconds, Steve could almost see them, at another time, in another place, being old friends making their way home after a night out on the town. The thought made Steve nostalgic and he shot a glance at Bucky, whose blue eyes were half-lidded, his shapely lips almost pouting around the hummed tune, his dark hair curling slightly over his shoulders. The picture in Steve’s mind changed, no longer just old friends, but lovers, looking forward to an evening together.

Steve shook himself out of the little daydream as he swiped the key card for their room and Bucky’s arm slipped off his shoulders.

“Sweet dreams, Stevie,” Bucky said with a sleepy smile as he headed to his room.

“Night, Buck,” Steve said quietly after him.

 

The next two stops on the tour – “it’s not really a tour, you know,” Wade said, “just a few shows” – were Warsaw and Kiev, with no hotel stay, and Steve was truly impressed that the close quarters on the bus hadn’t resulted in any murdered rock stars yet.

Bucky and Rumlow had almost come to blows over the last can of Cherry Coke in the fridge, and Steve had stepped neatly in front of Rumlow’s fist as it arched toward Bucky’s jaw. Steve took the blow and the taunts from Rumlow, but withered under Bucky’s glare as he rounded on him at the rest stop where the band got lunch.

“What the fuck was that, Rogers?!” Bucky shouted at him as soon as they were out of earshot of the rest of the band.

“I was doing my job,” Steve said calmly, which seemed to anger Bucky even more.

“You think I’m too much of a pussy to handle Brock, huh? You’re not my goddamn babysitter!”

“I’m your bodyguard, Bucky, it’s my job,” Steve repeated.

For a second, it seemed like Bucky would throw a punch at Steve. “Fuck you, Rogers!”

Steve didn’t say anything, didn’t move a muscle as Bucky glowered at him. Finally, after a few tense moments, Bucky’s shoulders sagged.

“Where’d he get you?” Bucky asked, stepping closer.

Steve shook his head. “He hardly touched me.”

Anger flared in Bucky’s eyes again. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

Steve opened his mouth to deny it, but Bucky was suddenly _right there_ , much too close, his right hand curling around the back of Steve’s neck. Steve froze, his breath catching in his throat. The fingers of Bucky’s left hand ghosted over his cheek, the tender skin soothed by Bucky’s cool touch.

“That’s gonna bruise,” Bucky said, his eyes – blue and green and grey this close up – roaming over Steve’s face.

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve breathed. He could feel the heat of Bucky’s body washing over him and he stepped back as if the other man was an open flame.

Bucky stared at him, an intensity in his gaze that Steve usually only saw while he was playing guitar. It made Steve look away, then instantly back at Bucky, words failing him.

The silence stretched between them, until Steve couldn’t stand it any longer and cleared his throat.

“We should go… lunch. Go have lunch,” he stammered over his words a little, looking away from Bucky again.

“Yeah,” Bucky turned on his heel and walked toward the rest stop, not looking back at Steve until they were seated at a table with the rest of the band.

After lunch, which was stilted and slightly awkward, the band trooped back onto the bus, and Rumlow clapped Steve on the shoulder.

“No hard feelings, Rogers,” he said, “it’s just a little cabin fever, ya know?”

Steve gave his best ‘aw shucks’ shrug.

“It’s fine,” he told Rumlow.

“Were you in the army?” Rumlow asked.

“Marines.”

“Wow,” Rumlow raised his eyebrow, “big tough soldier man, huh?”

Next to him, Steve actually heard Bucky’s teeth snap together as he clenched his jaw.

“Not anymore,” Steve said levelly.

“Nah, you’re a babysitter now.”

Steve gave a cold little smile. “Something like that, yeah.”

Rumlow grunted and turned away, toward his bunk.

Steve let Bucky pull him toward the couch, sitting down at Bucky’s tug on his sleeve.

“He’s not gonna let that go,” Bucky told him.

“That’s his problem,” Steve said calmly, “not mine.”

“Maybe you should think about carrying a gun.”

Steve smiled at him. “I really don’t need to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last fairly calm chapter, things are all downhill from here. Sorry.
> 
> Huge amounts of gratitude to everyone who's left kudos and comments, you guys are all awesome!!!


	7. Out Of Pride I'll Isolate My Fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from We'll Grind That Axe For A Long Time by Pantera.
> 
> The lyrics Bucky sings are mine, I apologize that they suck.
> 
> In case anyone was wondering, the song I quote at the beginning of each chapter is meant to convey Bucky's thoughts and feelings, not Steve's.

_Welcome to where time stands still_

_No one leaves and no one will_

_Moon is full, never seems to change_

_Just labelled mentally deranged_

_Dream the same thing every night_

_I see our freedom in my sight_

_No locked doors, no windows barred_

_No things to make my brain seem scarred_

_Sleep my friend and you will see_

_That dream is my reality_

_They keep me locked up in this cage_

_Can't they see it's why my brain says Rage_

_Sanitarium, leave me be_

_Sanitarium, just leave me alone_

_Build my fear of what's out there_

_Cannot breathe the open air_

_Whisper things into my brain_

_Assuring me that I'm insane_

_They think our heads are in their hands_

_But violent use brings violent plans_

_Keep him tied, it makes him well_

_He's getting better, can't you tell?_

_\- Welcome Home (Sanitarium), Metallica_

 

The next stop was Moscow, where the band were playing two shows and had TV and radio appearances over the course of three days.

They had an entire guesthouse to themselves for a week, and the band eagerly brought out a stack of board games to while away their one free day. Bucky won all three bouts of Scrabble and Sharon kicked all their asses at Cluedo, while Rollins quietly bankrupted everyone during a lengthy game of Monopoly. It was a nice day, thought Steve. There was more laughter than arguments and even Rumlow cracked jokes that had everyone in stitches.

As the afternoon wore on, they moved in front of the television with popcorn to watch Empire Records and Airheads. Bucky threw his feet into Steve’s lap, his arms folded behind his head. Steve toyed with the leg of his jeans and tried to ignore how comfortable this was, how cosy and nice.

 

Of course, the good times never last.

The first show went smoothly enough, but afterwards, at a large industrial-looking club, Steve had to get between Bucky and a blond man covered in the kind of tattoos you got in gangs and prisons. Bucky left the club, pale and shaken, with Steve in tow. He refused to tell Steve what the man had snarled at him in Russian, and locked himself in his room with a bottle of vodka.

The next morning, they had an early interview at a radio station, and Bucky kept a cocky smirk on his lips throughout, though that did nothing to hide the dark circles beneath his eyes.

After the interview, they did a quick acoustic performance. Bucky’s voice was slightly rougher than usual, but it suited the song.

_“I sometimes wait and look_

_To see the signs I missed_

_All the time it took_

_And dreams that don’t exist_

_Are left behind on burning bridges_

_Wasting time I thought I’d need_

_Before the broken seams found stitches_

_And the wounds refused to bleed.”_

After the performance, Bucky and Brock had a quick appearance on a TV talk show. Before being called on, Bucky turned to Steve, tugging at the hem of his black button-down.

“How do I look?” Bucky seemed a little nervous, and Steve gave a little smile that he hoped was reassuring as he looked Bucky up and down. He was wearing skin-tight black jeans, black shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal a section on the tattoo on his left arm and had his hair up in a bun that might’ve looked dickish on anyone else.

“You look fine,” Steve told him, and Bucky gave a snort.

“Fine? Really? You can’t be more creative than that?”

“Apparently not,” Steve said drily. It wasn’t like he could tell Bucky he looked like sex and bad decisions. “I’m a bodyguard, not a stylist.”

“You’re no fun,” Bucky complained, turning away and walking onto the soundstage just behind Brock.

After the show, they stopped at the studio door to sign autographs and take selfies, and Steve stood to one side, slightly anxious of a repeat of the previous evening’s altercation, but nothing happened.

Bucky kept the smirk on his lips until they reached the guesthouse. Once inside, he bypassed the rest of the band and shut himself in his room again, this time with a bottle of whisky for company. Steve excused himself and went to his own room to check in with Nick Fury via email and to call Sam, who promised to eat half his weight in Gramma Wilson’s rhubarb crumble in Steve’s absence and Steve groaned.

“Lucky bastard,” he told Sam, who laughed and promised to send Steve’s love to his grandmother.

Steve slept fitfully that night, his dreams filled with harsh sunlight and burning sand. At two A.M. he padded into the kitchen for a glass of water, his mouth dry and a phantom ache of dehydration in his kidneys, and stopped dead in his tracks when he realized Bucky was there, bundled in a sweatshirt with a steaming mug in his hands.

“Hey,” Bucky murmured. His hair was dishevelled, his socked feet folded over each other. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah,” Steve forced out, flinching at the scratch in his throat. He moved to get a glass and filled it with ice water.

“Would you like tea instead?” Bucky asked, lifting his mug.

Steve shook his head, gulping down half the water before speaking.

“Water’s good, but thanks anyway.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, watching as Steve finished his water. He knew he must look a mess, t-shirt damp with drying sweat, flushed and bleary-eyed.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Steve turned to the sink to rinse his glass, avoiding Bucky’s gaze. “Talk about what?”

“Whatever has you stumbling into the kitchen, looking like hell, at two in the morning.”

Steve stilled, then shrugged. How was he supposed to admit to still having nightmares about the desert years after leaving service? He hated the weakness the nightmares betrayed. He wasn’t weak anymore. He _wasn’t._

The silence stretched on, and Steve put his glass on the draining rack and turned to leave.

“Steve?” Bucky set his mug down, taking a step toward him.

“It’s nothing. Drop it,” Steve snapped, then fled the kitchen without looking back.

 

The next morning Sharon realized there hadn’t been a Twitter poll to decide on a song for the band to cover in that night’s show. They congregated in the living room to figure it out. Scott and Rollins played a game of Go-Fish while Rumlow, Wade and Bucky threw ideas around.

Wade vehemently argued for Wham!’s Careless Whisper.

“None of us know it well enough, Wade. Sorry,” Bucky said, annoyed.

Rumlow scoffed. “I’ve got one you _definitely_ know, James. What’s the name again? That Korn song, you know the one. Think it was called –.”

“Fuck you, Brock,” Bucky hissed. All the colour had drained from his face.

Wade looked between them, frowning.

Rumlow gave an ugly grin as Bucky stalked out, not stopping until he hit the sidewalk outside the guesthouse. Once there, he turned on Steve.

“Fuck off!”

“Not gonna do that, Buck,” Steve replied coolly.

“Yes, you are! You take orders from me.”

“I don’t take orders from anyone,” Steve said. “What happened in there?”

Bucky turned his back and started walking down the street, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. Steve stayed half a step behind him.

He finally turned a corner into a street lined with shops and cafés, going into a bookstore. He wandered through the shelves, lifting a book here and there, ignoring Steve completely. A shop assistant, a pretty girl with large dark eyes, approached him, a smile on her face.

Bucky spoke to her in fluent Russian, saying something that made her giggle as she led them through the store. She stopped in a corner and handed Bucky a large boxset of books which he promptly shoved into Steve’s arms. Steve raised an eyebrow at him, but Bucky’s attention was fixed fully on the girl, asking her for something else. After several minutes of this, Steve’s arms were filled with a wonky tower of books. Some he recognised despite the Cyrillic titles. The boxset was the A Song of Ice and Fire series, there were a few Jules Verne and Stephen King books and 1984 by George Orwell, as well as an English picture book called The Bumper Book of Bunny Suicides. Bucky picked up two more books from the English section, then led Steve to the checkout.

Steve dumped Bucky’s books on the counter, turning away from Bucky and spotted a display of art supplies.

Steve hadn’t drawn anything in years, not since before he enlisted, but he couldn’t seem to resist picking up a hardcover sketchbook and a pack of pencils. He dithered for a second, then selected a pack of sketching pens as well.

He paid, lifting the paper bag with his purchases by its string handle, just as Bucky turned toward the exit, laden with two large bags of his own.

“Need a hand?” Steve asked and Bucky handed him one bag.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, bad mood seemingly lifted by the retail therapy. He motioned toward a café. “Wanna get coffee?”

“I…” Steve knew he should remind Bucky that he worked for him, and therefore had to go wherever he went, and that asking him like that blurred lines that Steve preferred remain clear. Instead he said, “yeah, sure.”

They went inside, and Bucky handed his other bag to Steve. “Grab us a table, I’ll order.”

Steve nodded, hefting the bags.

“Black coffee, right?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I do pay attention sometimes.”

Steve gave a little smile as he turned to secure a corner table and sat down facing the door to keep his sightlines clear.

He rummaged in his bag, pulling out his purchases. Now that he had pencils again, his fingers itched to draw. He had just selected one when Bucky returned to the table, moving the bags off the chair next to Steve and sitting down, leaning back against the wall. He raised an eyebrow at Steve’s sketchbook, but Steve ignored him in favour of doing a quick line sketch of an old woman sitting alone by the door. Steve looked at the drawing critically. He was out of practice, the line work a little stilted. He set the book down when a waitress brought over their coffee and large slices of cake consisting of chocolate and something that looked like marshmallow, and Bucky immediately grabbed at it.

He studied the sketch, his eyes widening.

“Why have I never seen you draw before?”

“I haven’t drawn anything in years,” Steve admitted. There was no need to tell Bucky that he was itching to draw _him_ , stretched out on the hotel bed in Rotterdam, tattoos and skin displayed in equal measure.

Bucky put down the sketchbook. He didn’t say anything, instead devouring his cake, his eyes flicking back and forth across the café.

“So…” Steve started, “that song that Rumlow mentioned…”

Bucky went still.

“It’s not…” He trailed off, then started again. “It’s just Brock being a dick. He knows there are songs I’d never perform. He likes taunting me.”

Steve frowned. “I don’t get it. You obviously don’t get along. Why not just…”

“Replace him?” Bucky asked.

“Well, yeah.”

Bucky snorted. “You’ve heard him play, right? Where are we ever gonna find anyone as talented again? Nah. Besides, the friction works when we’re writing. Adds fuel to the ‘creative fire’ and all that.” He made air-quotes with his fingers.

Steve smiled a little. “I’ve seen you play, too. You’re easily as good as him.”

“Gee, thanks, Mr I-don’t-know-what-Pantera-is.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“Look,” Bucky said, licking at the prongs of his cake-fork (and making Steve’s mouth go dry), “I’m not bad, but I can’t play lead.”

“Because?” Steve pressed, grabbing his slice of cake as Bucky reached for it.

Bucky seemed to waver for a second, before saying quietly, “Because I have nerve damage in my left arm.”

“Oh,” Steve felt like an ass. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

“Spare me the fucking pity,” Bucky snapped.

“Fine,” Steve retorted sharply.

They glared at each other for a moment, then Bucky swiped Steve’s cake off his plate and took a large bite.

Steve pouted and Bucky grinned, taking another bite before putting it back. Steve finished it without any of his normal quirks about sharing food.

Steve did his best to ignore all these little ways in which Bucky has crept under his skin.

“Steve?” Bucky asked, “until when, exactly, are you gonna be babysitting me?”

“End of September. Why?”

Bucky bit his lip. “Thought it might be longer.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve said, draining his coffee and dumping his sketchbook and pencils back in their bag, “you’ll be rid of me before you know it.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, but he wasn’t looking at Steve. Steve looked at him, trying to figure out what had captured his attention and realized his gaze was fixed on a man standing outside of the café’s large front window.

“Come on, Rogers, time to earn your pay check.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immense gratitude to everyone who's left kudos and comments, you guys are beyond amazing!!! <3 
> 
> I wanted to do a few of drabbles from Bucky's POV of certain scenes. Would you guys prefer them being chapters of the main fic, or should I post them separately, like a mini-series?????? Please give your opinions!?!?!?


	8. Through The Worst We Still Marched Into Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, a real chapter this time! Sorry that I had to delete all your lovely comments with the non-chapter, I feel really bad about it :(
> 
> Anyway, the SVR RF is the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation, and along with the FSB and GRU, it is in the place of the KGB, which obviously no longer exists.
> 
> Chapter title from We'll Grind That Axe For a Long Time by Pantera
> 
> Please also check out[Pretty Hate Machine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7448893) which is chapter 1 and a bit of chapter 2 from Bucky's POV!
> 
> I will be posting more Bucky chapters separately as part of the [Ride the Lightning](http://archiveofourown.org/series/505960) series, so subscribe to that if you don't wanna miss out! (please)

_It's been years since anyone could be a friend_

_It's the fear that kills the feeling in the end_

_Can we face it? Can we shape it? Can we really die?_

_If rain is what you want... All you have to do is close your eyes_

_Just close your eyes..._

_I am watching resurrection start to crawl_

_Is there any chance in hell? Any chance at all?_

_Do we need it? Do we see it? Is it really there?_

_If rain is what you want... Then take your seats, enjoy the fall_

_Enjoy the fall..._

_The only thing deeper than my last breath_

_The only thing darker than my last death_

_Is the panic - the static - I've come back_

_From the dead_

_But my cities... Will never sleep again_

_In these diamonds, we're left with coloured glass_

_As pressure takes its toll, we learn to last_

_But you can't break my heart_

_As long as I can be myself, I'll never fall apart_

_And you can't take me in_

_If I'm not broken, break me down_

_So I will never feel alone again_

 

_\- If Rain Is What You Want, Slipknot_

_~_

 

_“Come on, Rogers, time to earn your pay check.”_

Steve grabbed Bucky’s arm as he rose from his seat, and felt him go utterly, unnaturally still, only his eyes turning to Steve.

“Who is he?” Steve asked, not letting go.

“Does it matter?” Bucky countered.

“Yes, it does.” Steve was already shifting into work mode, assessing and strategizing.

“His name is Ilya. I used to be… _employed_ by his family,” Bucky said in a rush. “Now get up.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on. Or else I’m doing this my way.”

Bucky made a frustrated noise. “Fine. But I’ll tell you after we go say ‘hi’, and only if you shut up and don’t get us killed.”

“Killed?” Steve raised an eyebrow, but he was already on his feet, gathering their bags.

Bucky didn’t reply as he led the way outside.

Steve stayed half a step behind Bucky as he approached the man.

“Ilya,” Bucky said. The lanky man smiled, his blonde hair turned white by the afternoon sun.

“Yasha,” the man – Ilya – said, as if he was delighted at seeing Bucky, though his eyes remained cold. He said something else in Russian.

Steve glanced at Bucky, whose shoulders were hunched forward slightly, his posture somewhere between cowering and defensive.

“Ilya,” Bucky interrupted, “we should speak English. My bodyguard here is American; you know how useless they are at languages.”

“Bodyguard? You’re _that_ famous and important now?”

Bucky shrugged. “Not really. What do you want?”

“To say hello, Yasha. You didn’t think we missed your TV appearance, did you?”

“Of course not,” Bucky replied, a little resignedly.

“And Dmitri would love to see you,” Ilya said with a stony little smile.

“I doubt that,” Bucky responded tightly, “he can’t stand me.”

“Nonsense. Besides, lately you’ve _grown_ in our esteem.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re famous. A rock star. Rich, talented. We weren’t sure it was really you at first. But as it is, it seems we had made a mistake in letting you go so cheaply.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed and he squared his shoulders. “My debt was paid in full, and you know very well by whom, Ilya.”

The man’s smile melted off his face. He snarled something in Russian that made Bucky flinch, before turning on his heel and stalking away.

 

Bucky was reticent until they got back to the guesthouse. Sharon intercepted them in the doorway to ask if Bucky was okay with doing cover of ‘Dude Looks Like a Lady’ by Aerosmith.

“Yeah, Shar, that’s fine,” Bucky nodded.

“Also, we’re leaving in ninety minutes.”

“Okay,” Bucky nodded again, “I’ll remember my pants, I promise.”

Dodging Sharon, he led the way to Steve’s room, where he sank down onto the bed, tucking one leg beneath him. Steve dumped their shopping near his feet and stood facing him.

“Explain.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Then I call it in to Shield, and _they_ explain it.”

Bucky reached for the bags. He pulled out two books and handed them to Steve.

One was Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, the other, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.

“You haven’t read them yet, right?” Bucky asked. “I’m sure we could exchange them if you have.”

“You bought me books?” Steve was a little incredulous.

“Yeah.”

Steve was pretty sure Bucky just kept himself from adding ‘duh’.

“Why?”

“They’re good. Read them, you’ll see.”

“Thank you, I suppose.”

“And I assume you’re welcome.” Bucky gave a little smile, and it took every effort for Steve to keep his expression serious. He put the books on his bedside table.

“So start talking, Buck.”

Bucky sighed. “Okay, okay. So, I told you I lived and worked here, right? Well, Ilya’s old man gave me my first job.”

He paused, glanced at Steve, and sighed again when Steve made a little motion for him to continue.

“I was a kid, barely sixteen, and I didn’t realize who they even were at first. I was a dumb American, I didn’t even recognize the tattoos until someone told me. ‘They’re the mafia, Yasha. Bratva’.” Bucky paused again and looked away from Steve, focusing his gaze on the wall above Steve’s left shoulder.

“It worked like this; you owe them a debt, for protection, for your life. If you ever manage to pay it off, you walk. Except that the debt grows exponentially, the longer you stay, so unless someone buys you out, they own you until your ass is rotting in a shallow grave.”

“But someone bought you out?”

“Yep. Nice guy, middle aged. Works for the SVR.”

“The… what?”

Bucky raised his eyebrows, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You were special forces and you don’t know what the SVR is? American standards have really taken a nosedive.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Ha ha, very funny. I know what the SVR is. Why would they pay your debt to the Bratva?”

“Because I was an American teenager who could already speak four languages? I didn’t ask questions. They bought me, I didn’t get a say.”

Steve winced at the phrasing Bucky used. Like he had been a slave.

“So what happened then?”

Bucky hesitated. “He took me to HQ, and they started doing tests.”

“Tests?” Steve’s chest felt a little too tight.

Bucky scoffed. “Not those kinds of tests, jerk. They did an IQ test, a physical, scenario tests, personality tests. I’m an INTJ by the way.” He actually winked, and Steve really wanted to hit him with a pillow.

“After the tests?”

“They offered me a job as a translator. I was smart enough, I suppose. They never would tell me what my IQ was, sadly. But I was good with languages, and I could give them lots of info on the Bratva.”

“Okay,” Steve was reeling a little. He sat down on the corner of the bed farthest from Bucky. “So how did you get from there to here?”

“I sort of got fired, I guess you could say. I fucked up on an assignment, and they don’t exactly give second chances. I’m out, you know. This isn’t the eighties, I’m not a sleeper agent or something.”

“I never thought you were,” Steve said honestly.

“Uh-huh,” Bucky tilted his head to the side. “Anyway, that’s it. You happy now?”

“What did you do for the Bratva?”

“Drugs, mostly,” Bucky said with a snort of laughter. “I haven’t changed that much.”

“That’s not funny, Buck,” Steve admonished. He got the feeling that for Bucky was omitting something, but he knew if he pressed Bucky would shut him out. “Why was none of this in your Shield file?”

“Because the SVR is good at confidentiality. And redacting names out of documents. Besides, I wasn’t that important in the scheme of things. I only worked for them for three years.”

Steve bit his lip. This was a lot to process. He looked at Bucky, who was opening the A Song of Ice and Fire boxset.

“Hey, look, it has a map of Westeros!”

Bucky folded out a large piece of paper, holding it out for Steve to see.

“Cool,” Steve said, a little hollowly.

“It’s very cool.”

“You’re a nerd,” Steve told him.

“And I’m fucking proud of it,” Bucky said with a grin.

“That story you told me,” Steve started, and Bucky’s smile faded, “it’s not entirely true, is it?”

“I don’t lie,” Bucky said icily.

“But you didn’t tell me everything.”

“So what?”

“Buck, I just -.”

“Oh, no. We’re not actually friends, Steve, right? You’re an employee. I told you what you wanted to know, so drop it.”

Steve felt like he’d been punched. He didn’t know what to say and he half expected Bucky to storm away and lock himself in his room with a bottle of liquor, but Bucky didn’t budge from Steve’s bed. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Steve found his voice.

“I’m sorry. I know we’re not friends. But it is my job to keep you safe, and I can’t do that if I can’t anticipate the threat.”  
“Yeah, I get it,” Bucky said quietly. “But the stuff I didn’t tell you isn’t important. I didn’t kill anyone for the Bratva and I never did black ops for the SVR. Okay?”

“Okay,” Steve acquiesced. There was another beat of silence, then he said; “you know, not all Americans only speak English. I speak French. And a little German.”

“Okay,” Bucky smirked and nudged Steve with his foot. “Hey, can you draw me a picture?”

“Of what?”  
Bucky pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen a few times, then held it out to Steve. On the screen was a picture of an immensely fluffy grey kitten.

“That’s Fred, she’s my cat.”

“You have a cat?” Steve said in surprise.

“Yeah,” Bucky was smiling again. “She’s a Siberian cat and she’s awesome. Lazy, but awesome.”

“And _she_ is named Fred?”

“Yeah, like Fred Weasly.”

“Fred is a boy’s name.”

“Fuck your heteronormativity.”

Steve laughed and reached for his sketchbook. He did a quick sketch while Bucky held his phone up and tried to sneak looks.

“You know what they say about curiosity and cats, don’t you?” Steve said as he pushed Bucky back for the umpteenth time. “Hold still, or I won’t be finished in time for the show.”

Bucky pouted and frowned and gave puppy eyes until Steve had finished. He carefully tore the sketch out of the book.

“It’s not that great, I’m really out of practice,” he excused as he handed it to Bucky.

“Shut up,” Bucky said with a smile. “It’s great, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now go get dressed or you’ll be late.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky got to his feet and stretched, and Steve looked away from the lines of his body. “Can’t keep the rabid fans waiting, can I?”

He disappeared into the bathroom that he and Steve shared, and Steve heard him singing over the sound of the water. Steve smiled as he added ‘Hysteria’ by Muse to his playlist. When had someone singing in the shower become endearing to him? Steve was in so much trouble.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so incredibly much for all the love I've received for this fic, you guys mean the world to me!!! <3


	9. It's Digging Time Again, You're Nurturing The Weakest Trend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Great Southern Trendkill by Pantera. 
> 
> The lyrics sung by Bucky are mine. As usual, apologies that they are awful.
> 
> Remember to check out [Pretty Hate Machine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7448893) and subscribe to [Ride The Lightning](http://archiveofourown.org/series/505960) since a new Bucky POV chapter is in the works and will be posted as a separate work within the series.

_It's all the same, only the names will change_

_Every day it seems we're wasting away_

_Another place where the faces are so cold_

_I'd drive all night just to get back home_

_I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride_

_I'm wanted dead or alive_

_Wanted dead or alive_

_Sometimes I sleep, sometimes it's not for days_

_And the people I meet always go their separate ways_

_Sometimes you tell the day_

_By the bottle that you drink_

_And times when you're alone all you do is think_

_And I walk these streets, a loaded six string on my back_

_I play for keeps, 'cause I might not make it back_

_I've been everywhere, and still I'm standing tall_

_I've seen a million faces and I've rocked them all_

_\- Wanted Dead or Alive, Bon Jovi_

 

After Moscow, the band were playing Rock Am Ring in Germany, and therefore spent almost four days straight on the bus. It made for grumpy rock stars and a harried Sharon, and Steve tried to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, to take up as little of the cramped space as he could. Bucky and Rumlow seemed to be constantly snapping at each other, so much so that Scott finally intervened, after they had interrupted a Skype call to his young daughter. The resulting shouting match seemed to sap everyone of whatever energy they had left, and Bucky came to find Steve, where he was hiding in his bunk, sketchbook open on his knees.

“What are you drawing?” Bucky asked, ducking his head and crawling into the confined space after nudging Steve’s feet out of his way.

“Nothing, just practising some line work.” Steve hoped Bucky couldn’t sound out the lie. He had been drawing Bucky, the way he remembered him on stage in Prague, with that icy spotlight outlining his silhouette, but there was way he was admitting that to anyone.

Bucky leaned against the wall opposite Steve, their legs getting tangled in the middle of the bunk. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at Steve, just sat, motionless, until Steve started fidgeting.

“What music do you actually like?”

The question took Steve by surprise. He raised one shoulder in a lopsided shrug.

“I don’t know, really. I listen to whatever’s on the radio, mostly.”

Bucky frowned. “That’s no way to live.”

“I’ve gotten this far.”

“Barely.” Bucky bit his lip, looking down at his hands, laying limp in his lap. “So the only Siberia you’ve heard is what we play during shows?”

“Uh…” Steve hesitated. “Not quite. I started listening to your music after Rotterdam.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I honestly didn’t think it would matter, one way or the other.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Do you dislike it?”

“Surprisingly, no.”

Bucky smiled at that, a small quirk of his lips that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Give me that,” he said, pointing to Steve’s rarely-used work tablet, carelessly placed beside his pillow.

Steve complied, watching as Bucky opened the YouTube app and pulled up a music video. Lateralus by a band called Tool

“I have a tattoo of a quote from this song. The band is amazing; just listen.”

He played the song, and it sounded unlike anything Steve had ever heard, even over the crappy tablet speaker. Steve watched Bucky while he listened, watching the way his eyes fell shut, his lips soundlessly forming the words. When it was over, Steve couldn’t help but ask.

“What quote do you have tattooed?”

Instead of answering, Bucky pulled up his shirt to show the black ink below his belly button. Steve leaned forward to get a better look.

_I'm reaching for the random or whatever will bewilder me._

It was inked in a style that made it barely legible, like a letter folded over too many times so the writing cracks and fades.

“Does it mean anything specific?” Steve asked, sitting back. Bucky tugged his shirt back down.

“I suppose it means that there’s always more than you already know. That if you reach out, you’ll grab onto something better, reach somewhere better. But that’s just me. I’ve talked to lots of people who interpret it totally differently, and that’s kinda cool to me.”

Steve smiled at that, giving a little nod.

Bucky bit his lip, like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Steve let him dither, using the silence to look up Tool’s albums.

Bucky seemed to decide silence was the better option and let his head fall back with a _thunk_ that made Steve wince, but didn’t seem to bother him too much, his eyes closed, looking sleepy and comfortable, one of his feet settled over one of Steve’s.

It was peaceful for a while, and Steve opened the Harry Potter book Bucky had gotten him and started reading.

Maybe he had misjudged Bucky after all. Let tabloid articles and an awkward first encounter colour his opinion of a man who was much too mercurial to be defined through second-hand first impressions.

It felt like the rock star persona that supplied so much click-bait was just a figment of the collective public’s imagination. Since joining the band, Bucky hadn’t had a single sexual encounter, and aside from the drinking, he was always level. Steve felt bad for how harshly he had judged Bucky before getting to know him. He was exceedingly happy to have been wrong about James Barnes, though.

 

They finally arrived in Nuremburg on a warm, cloudy Friday afternoon. The bus parked among a dozen others just like it, and the band seemed to get back their verve as they got off and approached a large tent, where small groups of tattooed and pierced people were standing around, talking animatedly in several languages and being interviewed by reporters and bloggers who were only distinguishable by the laminates around their necks.

In the tent, Sharon went to a table to sign in, and came back with laminates for herself, the band and Steve. Bucky and Wade set off for a group of men standing in a tiny spot of sunlight where the clouds had parted slightly. Steve followed, looking around, keeping an eye out for anything or anyone threatening. Bucky shook hands with a tall, muscled man with friendly hazel eyes.

“Steve,” Bucky started, looking around until he spotted Steve a few paces away and motioned him over. “Steve, this is Matt, Matt, meet my bodyguard.”

“Your _bodyguard_?” he said dubiously as he shook Steve’s hand. “You can take care of yourself, if I recall. Remember that creep at Download a few years back? You broke his arm!”

Steve raised his eyebrows at Bucky, who was laughing and shaking his head. “I sprained his elbow, and he got a few good punches in.”

“Because you were falling down drunk!” Matt was laughing too.

“Speaking of, where is the bar in this place?” Bucky asked, and Matt rolled his eyes while pointing out another tent pitched a short distance away.  

“Take it easy, James,” the other man said, clapping Bucky on the shoulder.

“You too, Shadz,” Bucky grinned as he walked away.

Steve bit his lip, following Bucky. “You know I have no idea who that was, right?”

Bucky chuckled. “Matt Sanders, from Avenged Sevenfold. The other guys were Zacky and Brian, also from Avenged.”

Steve looked back at them over his shoulder, the shorter guy with blue eyes was standing close to the other man, who had truly impressive bone-structure. “Are they… together?”

Bucky laughed openly at that. “They’re both married. To women.”

“Huh,” Steve shrugged.

“James!” a voice called, and Bucky turned, his face breaking into a grin as he saw the man approaching them.

“Jonathan,” Bucky greeted the dreadlocked man, “how are you, man?”

“Good, good,” the man called Jonathan said, “you doin’ alright?”

“Yeah, you know it, living the dream.”

Jonathan nodded, his gaze wandering to Steve. “You finally fire that asshole and get a new guitarist?”

“Nope, Brock’s still sticking around. This is Steve, my babysitter.”

“Hi,” Steve said, a little feebly.

“Jonathan Davis,” the man said.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Steve replied, looking back to Bucky.

“Steve listens to Top 40 hits only, he’s never even heard of Pantera,” Bucky told Jonathan, who sighed.

“Well, that’s too bad I suppose,” he said, then turned toward a German girl with a press badge who was trying silently to get his attention.

Bucky left them to it, and he and Steve made their way to the refreshment tent.

“Jonathan is in a band called Korn, he’s a genius.”

“Corn?” Steve questioned.

“Korn, with a K,” Bucky corrected him. “You should give them a listen. They have a song called ‘Blind’ that’s pure awesome.”

“Okay,” Steve agreed.

“I suppose you _won’t_ have a beer with me?”

“I’m working, Bucky.”

Bucky snorted and pressed an icy bottle of water into Steve’s hand, while he himself got a beer.

“Come on, let’s go out front, see who’s playing.”

Steve nodded and followed Bucky, who luckily stopped at the fringes of the crowd in front of the main stage. The crowd were moving in a great wave in time to the heavy bass and half-rapped-half-screamed rapid-fire German emitting from the speakers.

“They’re good!” Bucky shouted to Steve over the music.

“I guess so, but I think my ears are bleeding,” Steve retorted, making Bucky laugh.

“You’re no fun!”

 

The evening was spent in a melee of music, people, interviews, and drinking on Bucky’s part, and Steve was relieved when he finally decided to call it a night just before dawn, and clung to Steve’s side all the way back onto the bus. Once there, Bucky collapsed onto his bunk, but kept a death-grip on Steve’s wrist, trying to tug him down beside him.

“Let go, Buck,” Steve whispered gently, aware of the band and Sharon sleeping in their own bunks. He tugged, trying to free his arm, and Bucky pouted.

“Don’t,” he muttered, his lips turning down, and Steve felt a tug behind his ribs, like Bucky was holding his heart, not his arm. “I don’t…” Bucky trailed off, his brows drawing together.

“Don’t what, Buck?” Steve asked quietly.

Bucky’s frown deepened. “I don’t want to, don’t make me, I’ll be good, I promise.”

Steve went cold. “What don’t you want to do?”

“I… I’ll be good,” Bucky’s grip on Steve’s wrist tightened painfully, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, then he lapsed into Russian, speaking fast, but almost inaudibly.

Steve suddenly felt scared. He knew this behaviour, had seen it in Clint and Sam and himself. Bucky was having a flashback. One he was too drunk to get himself out of.

Steve leaned down, pressing the palm of his free hand to Bucky’s cheek.

“Bucky, hey, look at me. Bucky.”

Bucky stopped the litany of Russian, his eyes slowly focusing on Steve’s face, his hold on Steve’s wrist going slack.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky mumbled, blinking slowly.

Steve gave a relieved little sigh. “You should get some sleep, Buck. Okay?”

“M’kay,” Bucky agreed, groggily, letting go of Steve and turning to press his cheek to his pillow.

Steve waited until his breathing evened out before kicking off his shoes and laying down on his own bunk.

What was the flashback Bucky had had? Steve worried over it, over what bad experience Bucky had relived, until he fell into a fitful sleep, plagued with shouts in Arabic and whispers in Russian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote enough for two chapters in the last few days, so the next chapter will be posted tomorrow, and, if you're really really good, a new Bucky POV work will be posted [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/505960) on Sunday! 
> 
> As always, much love and gratitude to all the wonderful people who read, kudo and comment!


	10. You Look Just Like A Star, It's Proof You Don't Know Who You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, a new chapter so soon!
> 
> Chapter title from The Great Southern Trendkill by Pantera

_I can't stand to let you win_

_I'm just watching you_

_And I don't know what to do_

_Feeling like a fool inside_

_Feeling all the hurt you hide_

_Thought you were my friend_

_Seems it never ends_

_I need somebody someone_

_Can't somebody help me_

_All I need is to be_

_Loved just for me_

_Giving you this and that_

_Giving gave nothing back_

_It's all related to_

_All the things I do_

_Feeling like a fool inside_

_Seeing all the things you tried_

_I am nothing_

_I look I sign_

_I need someone_

_Inside to help me out_

_With what I'm trying_

_I'm crying, I'm frying_

_In a pile of shit_

_I'm dying_

_I'm dying_

_I'm dying_

_-  Somebody Someone, Korn_

_~_

Saturday was sunny and hot, and Bucky seemed to be in a particularly bad mood, skipping breakfast in favour of a bottle of Jim Beam.

The day was chaotic, with Bucky snapping at Steve to keep up and not bothering to introduce the many people who stopped to talk to him the way he’d done the previous day. Then, suddenly, in the late afternoon, Bucky vanished. He’d walked ahead of Steve, talking to a British girl who ran a music blog, and Steve had lost sight of him for a few seconds while he scanned the crowd of fans leaning over the barricades with their phones out, and when he looked back, Bucky was nowhere to be seen. Steve turned in a full circle, mentally cataloguing what Bucky had been wearing. Black shirt, black jeans, hair pulled up in a bun. Steve couldn’t see any trace of him, and felt his heartrate kick up a notch. It wouldn’t do to panic, Steve told himself, he couldn’t have gone far. He pulled out his phone and dialled Bucky’s number. Voicemail. Of course.

“Fuck,” Steve cursed under his breath, still scanning the crowd, his breath hitching as he saw dark hair pulled up in a bun, but it was only a tall girl, laughing with her friends.

He dialled Wade’s number, still slowly turning on the spot.

 _“Hey, Captain,”_ Wade answered on the third ring.

“Wade, is Bucky with you?”

_“No. Thought he was with you?”_

“I lost him,” Steve admitted.

_“Oh. I’m sure he’s fine, Steve, he probably needed a moment alone. He gets nervous before big gigs like this.”_

“Yeah,” Steve said, distractedly. “Could you just let me know if you see him?”

Wade agreed, and Steve ended the call. He went toward the refreshment tent, which was the main direction Bucky and the blogger had been heading in. There was no sign of them, and Steve’s pulse increased a little more. He could feel a flow of adrenaline spread through his body, making everything a little clearer, brought the world into sharper focus. He left the tent and started moving around the people scattered across the field, heading in the vague direction of the bus lot.

The adrenaline had pulled Steve back into mission mode, and he tuned out everything but his current objective. Locate James Barnes. Confirm that he was safe and uninjured. Steve threaded his way between several buses, still swivelling his head to keep his field of vision as wide as possible, and heard a groan, followed by a bit-off curse, the voice unmistakably Bucky’s.

Steve rounded the tail end of a bus and stopped in his tracks, Bucky’s name dying on his lips as he took in the sight before him. Bucky with his back against the side of a bus emblazoned with a winged skull, the blogger on her knees in front of him. Before Steve could turn away, Bucky’s eyes opened and his gaze froze him on the spot. Steve’s chest seemed to catch fire, jealousy pushing up into his throat, burning like acid on the back of his tongue. Bucky pulled away from the girl, and Steve found his legs again. He turned on his heel and walked away, aware of Bucky’s footsteps closing in on him.

“Steve!” Bucky’s voice was angry, furious even.

“I’m sorry for interrupting,” Steve bit out, not turning, not slowing. “I was only doing my job.”

“Goddamnit, Steve,” Bucky’s voice was right behind him now.

“Go finish up,” Steve told him, as calmly as he could manage, “I won’t barge in on you again.”

Bucky grabbed Steve’s bicep, tugging hard to bring him to a standstill.

Steve pulled away from him. “What?!” he demanded, but now he was close up, Steve saw how far Bucky’s pupils were dilated, the soft, unfocused way his gaze flitted around, and he felt his own anger burning through the acid sting of seeing Bucky with that girl.

“Damnit, Bucky, are you high?” he demanded.

Bucky hesitated, looking guilty for a moment. “I only did a couple of lines. She offered, how could I refuse?”

“Easily,” Steve snapped.

Bucky gave a hollow little laugh. “Saying no, wouldn’t that be nice, huh?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’,” Bucky mumbled. “Are you mad that I’m high, or that I got a blowjob and you didn’t.”

“I’m mad because you gave me the slip! It’s my job to make sure you’re safe, Bucky! I can’t do that if you disappear in a place filled with thousands of people. Fuck, Bucky, I was worried out of my mind. I looked for you for half an hour!”

Bucky bit his lip, his shoulders curled forward, almost cowering in the face of Steve’s anger.

“Sorry, Stevie,” he mumbled, looking down, his hands fidgeting in front of him.

Steve took a sharp breath through his nose, exhaling in a long gust.

“And I’m sorry for interrupting your little moment back there.”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s okay, really.”

“Why? She use teeth?”

Bucky let out a breath of laughter. He seemed to be coming down a little, and Steve felt relieved.

“No. It’s just the thing to do.”

“The thing to do?”

“Sex,” Bucky said, waving his hand in a vague gesture.

Steve reconsidered how high Bucky actually was.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted.

Bucky frowned at him. “I do it ‘cause it’s expected. It’s not like I should enjoy it.”

“Enjoy what, exactly?” Steve was frowning now, too.

Bucky started to speak, but was interrupted by Steve’s phone ringing.

It was Sharon, reminding them that the band needed to be onstage soon, and Bucky changed the subject to as they made their way backstage.

 

Siberia took the stage just as the sun started to reach the western horizon, ahead of Korn, who were headlining, to thunderous cheers and applause.

Bucky spoke to the crowd in a mix of English and German. Steve stood in the wings and marvelled at how Bucky could command thousands of people’s attention and respect so effortlessly. At the same time, standing so high above everyone else, he was also the most grounded. Instead of the spotlight making him into an otherworldly being, it bared his utter humanity. The crowd sang every word to each song, and the experience shook Steve to his very core.

The last song opened with a riff that started several circular movements in the crowd that made Steve dizzy.

Bucky’s vocals were cleaner, even over the heavier bass and drums, and Steve took in every word he sang.

 

_“Tired of one night stands_

_Tired of strangers’ hands_

_Tired of getting drunk, getting laid_

_I’m getting pissed, I need to get saved_

_So can you give me your hand_

_Pull me outta this black-hole lifestyle, baby?_

_‘Cause I’m sick!_

_I’ve been numb for way too long_

_Drowning in the bottle_

_Choking on the pills_

_A way to get through, get me all my thrills_

_So pour me another, take me home_

_Your place, honey, I’m too wasted_

_To spend tonight alone_

_Another shot, another line_

_Another hit, one more time_

_Got so high that I lost my mind_

_Do you wanna help me find…?”_

The song ended with Bucky walking off stage, shoving his guitar into the hands of a technician, and striding straight past Steve who followed close behind, determined not to lose him again, while Rumlow stepped up to the mike and thanked the crowd. Steve stayed on Bucky’s heels all the way to the edge of the bus lot, empty of people with everyone gathered closer to the stage, where Bucky turned on him.

“Do you have to follow me around like a fucking puppy all the goddamn time?!”

Steve flinched at Bucky’s shout, but before he could answer, Bucky continued, his voice hoarse. “Everywhere I fucking turn, you’re _right there._ I can’t take it anymore. Just go away!”

Steve was shocked into silence as Bucky turned away and trudged toward Siberia’s bus. He debated just letting the other man go, but he’d been uneasy the whole time they’d been here, and he’d had enough experience to heed his instincts when it came to danger. Trying not to let it show that Bucky’s words had hurt him, Steve followed him into the gathering darkness. He found Bucky sitting on the couch in the bus, his head in his hands.

“Buck,” Steve murmured.

“I knew you wouldn’t go away.”

“It’s my _job,_ Bucky.”

“Yeah, so you’ve said a million times. You sound like a broken record.”

Steve stayed quiet, leaning against the little kitchenette counter.

Bucky rubbed his temples, keeping his head down.

“Why’d you choose this, after the military?”

Steve hesitated. Bucky’s mood swings were wearing him down. It was exhausting having to play catch up all the time, always be half a step behind. For a spiteful second Steve considered telling Bucky that he was an insufferable asshole, then realised it wouldn’t be entirely true, and answered the question instead.

“My friend Natasha suggested it. Civilian life was… hard to get back into, and this is something good, something that helps people.”

“Why not be a doctor, then?”

Steve gave a rueful smile that Bucky didn’t see. “I didn’t do too well in school, definitely not good enough for something like that.”

Bucky glanced up at him, then away again, his brow knitted. “You’re really smart, though.”

Steve shrugged. “It wasn’t that. I missed most of high school.”

“Why?” Bucky’s eyes narrowed.

Steve felt the muscles along his spine spasm, his chest tightening like the beginning of an asthma attack. He wasn’t sure why he would tell Bucky how frail he’d been. How weak. But he spoke anyway.

“I was sick a lot as a kid, and then, when I was fifteen, my asthma got a lot worse, and my kidneys started acting up. I was pretty sure I’d never see eighteen, but I had my mom, and a great doctor, Dr Erskine, and I pulled through. I graduated high school, just barely, but with 9/11, all thought of college was pushed aside. So I joined the army.”

Bucky nodded slowly. “You were what, eighteen? When 9/11 happened?”

“Yeah,” Steve said quietly.

“Why not go for a military career?”

“That was my plan, at first.”

“What changed?”

Steve just shook his head. He was weak, always had been. It wasn’t something that had changed, it was the one thing that hadn’t.

Bucky bit his lip. “How ‘bout this? You tell me what happened, and I tell you what I really did for the SVR.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to get the new Bucky POV work up tomorrow, otherwise it'll be on Wednesday.


	11. Cheap Cocaine, A Dry Inhale, The Pills That Kill And Take The Pain Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Suicide Note pt I by Pantera.
> 
> If you wanna know a little more about the inner working of Bucky's mind, give [Black Gives Way to Blue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7602358) a read, you won't regret it. 
> 
> I just realized how British the English in this fic is, sorry! I'm South African, and we use British English, because of the whole colonization thing way back when. Whoops. I'll try to be more 'Murican in future. (Apologies if that offends anyone).
> 
> Also, I've had a few comments solely asking when the smut's coming, without saying anything else or giving constructive criticism. I seriously considered removing any sexual interaction between Steve and Bucky that I have in my outline, then realized it would unbalance certain plot elements to keep their relationship platonic, and instead cut all but the most necessary interactions between them. I'm sorry to do it, since I really wanted to keep the spirit of SEX, drugs and rock 'n roll in coming chapters, but I also feel a bit icky about getting comments like that.

_If I gave you the truth, would it keep you alive?_

_Though I'm closer to wrong_

_I'm no further from right_

_And now I'm convinced on the inside that something's wrong with me_

_Convinced on the inside, you're so much more than me, yeah_

_No there's nothing you say that can salvage the lie_

_But I'm trying to keep my intentions disguised_

_And now I'm deprived of my conscience and something's got to give_

_Deprived of my conscience_

_This all belongs to me, yeah_

_I'm beaten down again, I belong to them_

_Beaten down again, I've failed you_

_I'm weaker now my friend, I belong to them_

_Beaten down again, I've failed you_

_\- Truth, Seether_

_~_

 

Steve blinked in mute surprise for a long moment, while he considered if he wanted to know more about Bucky’s past badly enough that he would willingly divulge something he’d never even told Sam.

“Come on,” Bucky’s bad mood had apparently given way to curiosity. “You know about the Bratva, and whatever else was in my file, and I know fuck-all about you.”

Steve had to concede the point. He’d been pressing Bucky for details about his life all this time, without telling him anything about himself in return.

“Okay,” Steve threw up his hands, then ran them through his hair. He wasn’t sure where to start, but sighed and spoke anyway.

“Okay… so stuff like dates and locations are classified, and for good reason.”

Bucky nodded and Steve continued.

“My unit was sent on a mission to rescue a doctor, this brilliant scientist, from a hostile facility in the middle of… a desert. It should have been easy. In and out. Clean.”

Steve took a breath.

“But I got arrogant, thought we could take down the entire operation while we were there. Turned out we were outmanned, outgunned. By the time we realized, it was too late to get out.”

Steve paused again, fixing his gaze on his scuffed Converse. He could taste bile, bitter and acidic, on the back of his tongue.

“I ordered one of my men to find the doctor, and get away, but they never did. It was chaos, bullets everywhere. You couldn’t take two steps without slipping in blood. Finally, finally there were only three hostiles left. Those of us left rallied, we thought we’d won. Then the missile hit. Somewhere in the fray, one of the hostiles must’ve radioed in that they were under attack, and their command decided to cut the losses. I was going after one of them, halfway down a corridor going to a fire escape. I remember this sound, this _whoosh_ , and hot wind, then nothing. I was thrown clear of the blast, scraped and bruised, with a concussion and a broken leg, but alive. No one else was that lucky.”

Steve cleared his throat, his eyes scratchy. He hadn’t cried, not once, since they found him, half-raving from heatstroke and dehydration in the sand, and he refused to do so now.

“Dugan, Jones, Falsworth, Morita, Dernier.” Steve said the names like a prayer, barely audible, then added, “It took the extraction team almost four days to find me. I still…” He cut himself off, swallowing heavily, and shook his head. He’d said enough.

“I’m sorry about your men,” Bucky said gently.

“So am I.”

“You should stop blaming yourself.”

“Who says I blame myself?” Steve’s head snapped up, suddenly defensive.

“You don’t need to say it,” Bucky shifted restlessly, then got to his feet and stepped closer to Steve.

For a wild second, Steve thought Bucky was moving to hug him, and tensed, but the other man merely opened the cabinet beside his head and took out two mugs. In the tense quiet, he made tea.

“Thanks,” Steve murmured, accepting the steaming mug of Earl Grey.

Bucky moved back to the couch, but didn’t sit down, his movements restive and agitated.

Steve kept quiet, until his tea – a little too sweet – was finished, and he couldn’t take Bucky’s fidgeting anymore.

“So tell me what you really did for the SVR.”

Bucky stopped moving immediately, his body going entirely still in that unnatural way he sometimes had.

“I gathered intel.”

“How?”

Bucky had frozen with his back half-turned, but he moved around to face Steve, though without looking at him.

“I have a certain… skill set, I suppose you could call it. Sometimes, people were suspected of doing things that weren’t in Russia’s best interest, and I’d find out what, and how and when.”

“How?” Steve repeated.

Bucky shrugged. “Discreetly. Mostly the people suspected were innocent, with rumors started by other people who wanted money or power or revenge. When the suspicions were legit, though, I’d get out before they realized anything was amiss, and call in the taskforce to handle it.”

“And that’s it?”

Bucky nodded. “It doesn’t even fall under the umbrella of counter-intelligence. I was basically a paid informant.”

“What’s your skillset?”

Bucky hesitated, his gaze dropping to his feet before meeting Steve’s.

“I speak a lot of languages,” he hedged, a blatant half-truth.

“And?” Steve pressed.

Bucky looked uncomfortable, turning his empty mug around in his hands.

“What’s your favorite color?”

The question caught Steve by surprise, and he frowned at Bucky, who looked _guilty_ suddenly. Steve sighed. He couldn’t press Bucky for more, knew he’d clam up and turn surly and moody again, so he answered the question.

“Blue. Yours?”

“Red. What’s your Hogwarts House?”

Steve shrugged. “Not a clue.”

“What do you do for fun? If you ever have fun, that is.”

Steve ignored the barb. “I go out with my friends, play basketball at the courts near my apartment, or go to the gym. When I’m home I like to go to football games. I volunteer at the youth center when I’ve got time.”

“You’re a goody two-shoes. And a jock.”

“And you’re a nerd.”

Bucky pursed his lips, the action unnecessarily sexy.

“So no boyfriend?”

“Nope. Thought you knew that already.”

Bucky shrugged. “What about your family?”

“I don’t really have any. Mom died just after I enlisted, my dad died when I was really little, and I don’t have siblings.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. What about you? The file never mentioned your family.”

“My mom and my baby sister died when I was four. I don’t really remember them much.”

“And your dad?”

Steve could swear Bucky flinched at his question.

“Haven’t seen him in almost twenty years.” Bucky’s tone was even, but the expression in his eyes was icy.

Steve just nodded.

“The last assignment I was on for the SVR,” Bucky started, “the one that got me ‘fired’, I fucked up. Something I said or did tipped the guy off who I was, what I was doing. I thought he’d kill me, you know. But he was smarter than that, knew I might have info _he_ could use. He got pretty creative about it too. I never said a damn thing though. I kept reciting Metallica lyrics in every language I know. It was up in this little village in Siberia, guy owned this big house that he used for parties.”

Bucky set down his mug and held out his left arm, pushing the short sleeve up over his shoulder.

“I nearly lost my arm. He thought he was Ramsay Bolton or something, but he didn’t realize how fast infection could set in with open wounds.”

He traced across the tattoo of overlapping metal plates, and Steve leaned closer to get a better look and noticed for the first time that the ink covered scar-tissue, running from Bucky’s deltoid, down to his forearm.

“I broke my elbow getting out of the restraints, it hurt like a motherfucker, but the cold helped, numbed the pain, halted the bleeding. When I got out of the hospital, I got called in by my handler. They didn’t give second chances. It was a good thing, though. I got out completely, a clean break.”

Steve balled his hands into fist to keep from running his fingers along Bucky’s skin, to trace the patterns of the scars. Bucky pulled away, righting his sleeve.

“Is that why the band’s named Siberia?”

“Yeah. The guys don’t know; they just think it’s cause I like Russia. And I do, I still do, even after all the shit.”

Steve was at a loss for what to say. Every time he thought he had Bucky figured out, the man revealed something that altered Steve’s perception of him, threw him off balance. He bit his lip, watching as Bucky sagged back onto the couch, folding his legs in beneath him. Bucky looked up at him, his expression guarded, unsure.

“So…” Steve started, casting around for something, anything to say. “What’s your Hogwarts House?”

Bucky let out a startled laugh. “Ravenclaw.”

Steve nodded. “That’s the uh… not the evil House, right?”

That got him an eye-roll. “None of the Houses are evil. Ravenclaw values intelligence and individuality.”

Steve nodded. That sounded pretty spot-on for Bucky, he supposed.

“So what’s mine?” he asked.

“Get your tablet, we’ll make you a Pottermore account.”

“You are such a nerd,” Steve threw over his shoulder as he did what Bucky said, then came to sit beside him.

Bucky leaned closer, typing on the tablet as Steve held it out and told him his email address.

“Password?” Bucky asked.

“Just make something up,” Steve told him, which earned him another eye-roll, but Bucky tapped out a rather long series of little dots in the password bar.

“Okay, first you gotta get a wand.”

Steve snorted, and Bucky elbowed him. “Don’t be such a jock.”

“Okay, sorry,” Steve said as soberly as he could manage. “Isn’t this for kids, though?”

“Of course not. Harry Potter transcends age, gender and race. Now answer these.”

Steve got his wand, cedar with unicorn hair, and Bucky grinned at him.

“What’s yours?” he asked.

“Willow and phoenix feather,” Bucky said, a little proudly. “Now, your house quiz, and try to put some thought into it.”

“Yes, Professor Barnes,” Steve said drily, and Bucky’s smile widened even more.

He did the quiz and got…

“Gryffindor,” Steve said, looking up at Bucky.

“Congratulations!” Bucky said. “That’s the house of renowned witches and wizards such as Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall and Neville Longbottom.”

Steve’s mouth turned up at the corners. “And it’s not the evil house either?”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake. It’s the brave house.”

Steve’s smile faded a little. “I’m not all that brave.”

“Neville thought the same thing, and look at what he did.”

Steve looked at Bucky, sitting so close that Steve could feel the warmth radiating from him. He was breathtaking, so close, with his hair falling into his eyes, his lips curling at the corners in that Cheshire Cat way, stumble shadowing his jaw. Steve wondered what would happen if he just kissed Bucky, just to feel those lips, just to taste him.

It was Bucky who broke the moment, shifting away, his expression uncomfortable, but before Steve could apologize, the bus door banged open and the rest of the band stumbled inside, laughing and talking in loud bursts. Bucky got up and went to his bunk, leaving Steve on the couch without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading, and enormous gratitude for all the kudos and comments!
> 
> Also, did y'all read Harry Potter and the Cursed Child yet? What did you think? What's your Hogwarts House?   
> I'm Ravenclaw, and I loved Cursed Child so so so much! Scorpius is just amazing, imo.


	12. Diet Of Life, Shelter Without, The Face That Cannot See Inside Yours And Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? A new chapter? So soon? Well, ain't ya lucky, folks?
> 
> Chapter title from Suicide Note pt I by Pantera.
> 
> Ps. Please pretend the Marilyn Manson song has male pronouns. I felt weird about changing them. But imagine this: 'little boy, little boy, you should close your eyes, that blue is getting me high'. Also, quick reminder that the songs I quote at the start of each chapter portrays Bucky's thoughts and feelings, not Steve's.

_She reminds me of the one in school_

_When I was cuttin'_

_She was dressed in white_

_And I couldn't take my eyes off her_

_But that's not what I took off that night_

_She'll never cover up what we did with her dress, no_

_She said kiss me_

_It'll heal_

_But it won't forget_

_Kiss me_

_It'll heal_

_But it won't forget_

_And I don't mind you keepin' me_

_On pins and needles_

_If I could stick to you_

_And you stick me too_

_Don't break_

_Don't break my heart_

_And I won't break your heart-shaped glasses_

_Little girl, little girl_

_You should close your eyes_

_That blue is getting me high_

_She reminds me of the one I knew_

_That cut up the negatives of my life_

_I couldn't take my hands off her_

_She wouldn't let me be anywhere but inside_

_\- Heart-Shaped Glasses, Marilyn Manson_

 

~

 

They boarded a plane for London early on Monday morning. Bucky offered Steve the window seat, and sank down next to him, looking worn and tired after a Sunday spent surrounded by crowds and press. Steve was just happy that Bucky hadn’t turned cold and surly again. Bucky opened one of the Cyrillic books he’d bought, and pulled a foot up onto the business class seat, the action pressing his left shoulder against Steve’s right, and Steve tried to ignore the warmth as he pulled up Shield emails and tapped out a report on his tablet. The flight wasn’t long, and they took a van up to Leicestershire, where they were staying in a quaint little inn for the week until the Download Festival started.

 

Only Sharon got her own room, the band and Steve were two to a room, Steve sharing with Bucky, Scott with Wade and Rumlow with Rollins. The rooms were spacious, though with twin beds, and a shared bathroom. Bucky sank down on the bed closest to the windows, and lay back, closing his eyes with a little sigh.

Steve dumped his bags on the bed, and began unpacking the necessities. Bucky was snoring softly by the time he was done, and Steve took a moment to smile over at him, his body stretched out on the bed, totally relaxed, his shirt riding up past his navel, revealing a stretch of smooth, tattooed skin that made Steve’s mouth go dry. A cold shower seemed a good idea, and Steve grabbed his shower bag and one of the inn’s large green towels.

Even under the cool spray in the shower, Steve had a hard time keeping his thoughts away from Bucky, with those blue eyes and miles of tattoos covering the skin Steve wanted badly to taste. He’d spent most of the time on the bus in a state of frustrated half-arousal, cursing Bucky for the effect he had on him. Steve groaned quietly, and slid a hand down his abdomen, to curl his fingers around his hard length. It felt good, and Steve let another soft sound escape his lips as his thought turned in circles around Bucky, Bucky, _Bucky_ …

He was close, bracing with one hand against the tiled wall of the shower, when the bathroom door banged open and Bucky’s voice registered in his thoughts.

“Steve, I know you’re in here, but I really, really need to… oh.”

Steve straightened, his hand jerking away from his erection, a soft curse on his lips as he realized that even with the frosted glass of the shower’s door, it was painfully obvious what he’d been doing. Steve felt his skin suffuse with heat. Bucky had frozen in the doorway, his lips half-parted with an unasked question.

“I should…” Bucky started, but Steve interrupted quickly, trying not to make things even more awkward.

“It’s fine, Bucky. You wanted to pee, go ahead.”

Bucky seemed to vacillate for a second before his bladder won out. Steve turned away, sure he must be blushing scarlet from the roots of his hair down to his toes, upended a shampoo bottle and started washing his hair.

Bucky emptied his bladder and washed his hands, pausing in the doorway for a second.

“Thanks, and sorry,” he said, a little awkwardly.

“It’s fine, Buck,” Steve told him again and Bucky made his escape.

 

When Steve got out of the bathroom fully dressed (and still half-hard) ten minutes later, Bucky was gone. Steve panicked for a moment, before spotting the note on his pillow, written in a slightly messy scrawl.

 

_Gone to lunch downstairs, hurry up or Wade will eat your food._

  * _Bucky_



Steve hurriedly put on his shoes and went downstairs to join Sharon and the band for a buffet lunch. He filled his plate and sat in the only open place at their table, between Scott and Sharon, with Bucky opposite him, engaged in conversation with Wade about Game of Thrones.

“I suppose you’ve never watched that either,” Wade threw at Steve.

Steve swallowed a bite of potato, and gave a little smirk.

“You suppose incorrectly Wade. I’ve even read the books.”

Wade’s jaw dropped a little. “You have?”

“Yup,” Steve took a bite of chicken.

“Wow! You’re not that much of a heathen after all.”

Steve gave a little half-shrug and continued eating. Through lunch he noticed Bucky giving him strange looks and cornered him as everyone got up after dessert.

“Buck, should we talk? About earlier, I mean?”

Bucky looked wildly uncomfortable for a second before smirking, back to the man who’d propositioned Steve in that penthouse in Rotterdam.

“Whatever you want, good looking,” Bucky said, his voice lowering an octave, his eyes going wide, tongue flicking out to touch his top lip. It was a perfect seduction technique, implemented with the ease of long practice. Steve went cold, and stepped away from Bucky.

“Don’t do that, Buck.”

Bucky’s face changed again, uncertainty painting his features.

“What should I do then?”

Steve lifted a shoulder. “Tell me if I made you uncomfortable. If I should apologize?”

Had he made Bucky uncomfortable? In his time living with Sam, they’d walked in on each other jerking off occasionally, and always laughed it off.

“I don’t…” Bucky started, “I didn’t realize – I mean, I don’t get it.”

Steve’s brows pulled together. “Get what?”

Bucky sighed, and tried to move past Steve, but he blocked the other man’s way.

“No, come on, Buck, just say it.”

“I don’t get _that._ Why you’d do… that.”

“Masturbate?” Steve asked in confusion.

Bucky looked down, his cheeks staining pink. It was the first time Steve had ever seen him blush, and it left him rather flummoxed.

“I don’t get it,” Bucky repeated, much quieter.

Steve’s mind reeled a little, and he picked gingerly through his next words.

“It’s… normal. Healthy, even.”

Bucky frowned, his expression making it clear that he did not see it that way.

“Buck, it’s… don’t you?”

Bucky made a noise of disgust and shook his head.

“Ever?” Steve raised an eyebrow.

“No.”

For a second Steve felt almost winded. James Barnes was notorious for his sex-life, his endless list of one-night stands. Something about his denial rang sour for Steve.

“Why?” he asked, unable to let this go.

“Why would I?” Bucky returned.

“Because it feels good. Because it’s a… release.” Never in his wildest dreams about this assignment did Steve ever expect to be having this conversation.

Bucky shook his head again. “It’s not… sex isn’t…” Bucky huffed out a breath. “Can we stop talking about this? Please?”

Steve nodded, even though the curiosity was burning up in him. “Okay. Sure.”

The exchange replayed itself in Steve’s mind all afternoon, and he missed most of the movie they were all watching in Wade’s room, only registering it had ended when Sharon nudged his shoulder.

“Tired?” she asked as the credits rolled across the screen.

“I… yeah, I guess I am, a little,” he told her and she smiled in sympathy.

“It gets rough, being out here, away from home so long. The first few tours nearly had me locked in a psych ward.”

Steve gave a little smile. “That must’ve been hard.”

“Yeah, especially with James and Pierce…” she trailed off, looking slightly guilty, like she’d said too much.

“What do you mean?” Steve pressed.

Sharon bit her lip, before continuing in a hushed voice. “They don’t do well together. I don’t know why, because Pierce has always treated James like a son, but James… he goes out of his way to get into trouble when Pierce is with the band. Drinks more, does more drugs. He even staged an orgy once. The PR cleanup on that one was a mess. Like he wants to show Pierce he won’t be controlled, even if it’s in his best interest.”

“Why hasn’t he been to rehab, or tried to get help?” Steve asked, glancing at Bucky, who was dozing at the foot of Wade’s bed.

“He refuses to go. I think he’s scared the band will fail, or he’ll be replaced if he takes a break. Like that’ll ever happen. James _is_ Siberia.”

Steve nodded slowly. “It seems a little… dangerous… to let him continue this way.”

Sharon shrugged. “You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

 

Steve mulled over Sharon’s words as he and Bucky made their way back to their room after two more movies Steve hadn’t paid attention to and Bucky had slept through. Of everything he’d learned about Bucky, one thing was starting to become clear: Bucky’s every action was a cry for help.

Bucky tumbled face first into his bed, but tossed and turned well into the night, while Steve lay awake, thinking. Near dawn, Bucky suddenly sat up with a gasp, his eyes wild, terrified. Steve was on his feet immediately.

“Buck, you okay?”

Bucky looked at Steve, blinking in confusion for a second before letting out a pent up breath.

“I’m fine, go back to sleep.”

Except that Steve could see his trembling, how pale his face was, even in the dark.

“Nightmare?” Steve asked as Bucky pulled his knees up to his chest. “I get them too. PTSD and shit. Sometimes I dream I’m counting grains of sand and I can’t stop, ever.”

Steve sat down on the end of Bucky’s bed as he spoke.

Bucky looked at him, then down at his own hands. “I dream of that house in Siberia. Or about the Bratva and Moscow.”

Steve inclined his head. “Can I do anything? Get you some water maybe?”

Bucky shook his head. “’M okay, thanks, Stevie.”

Steve gave a little smile at the name. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, until Bucky spoke again.

“When I was a kid, about twelve or so, I knew this girl, Mallory. She was really my only friend, and we’d go to her house after school to hang out and her mom would make us lunch, and give us cookies and lemonade. We’d just sit on the carpet in their living room, playing video games or watching stupid cartoons or Power Rangers.” Bucky smiled a little at that. “You remind me of her, sometimes. She didn’t know a thing about comic books or science fiction. It annoyed me to no end when I’d try to tell her about Wonder Woman and all she could care about was Amelia Earhart. She was a lot like you, good and sorta… pure.”

Steve felt his cheeks go a little red. “Wow. Thanks, Buck, but I can’t say I’m especially good or pure. I saw too much, did too much during the war.”

Bucky just shrugged. “You’re still clueless about things like Star Trek, though.”

“But we watched that on the bus! I’m all caught up now.”

Bucky kicked Steve’s thigh. “That was Star Wars, punk.”

Steve laughed. “I knew that. Jerk.”

Bucky yawned through his smile, and Steve got up to move back to his own bed, suddenly aware he hadn’t slept a wink all night.

“Go back to sleep, Buck,” he said softly.

“Yeah, yeah. Night, Stevie.”

“Sleep well, Bucky.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sexual content all up in this bitch! 
> 
> Gratitude and love, as always, to everyone who reads, kudos and comments <3


	13. Tortured History, Addict Of Misery, This Exposes Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Suicide Note pt II by Pantera.
> 
> Oh God, I'm using Stinkfist, I've gone over the edge people. Please don't hate me. 
> 
> Also, a note on Bucky and sex: He is NOT asexual. Just, for future reference, and stuff.

_Something has to change._

_Undeniable dilemma._

_Boredom's not a burden_

_Anyone should bear._

_Constant over stimulation numbs me_

_but I would not want you_

_any other way._

_It's not enough._

_I need more._

_Nothing seems to satisfy._

_I said_

_I don't want it._

_I just need it._

_To breathe, to feel, to know I'm alive._

_Finger deep within the borderline._

_Show me that you love me and that we belong together._

_Relax, turn around and take my hand._

_I can help you change_

_Tired moments into pleasure._

_Say the word and we'll be_

_Well upon our way._

_Blend and balance_

_Pain and comfort_

_Deep within you_

_Till you will not want me any other way._

_Knuckle deep inside the borderline._

_This may hurt a little but it's something you'll get used to._

_Relax. Slip away._

_Something kinda sad about_

_the way that things have come to be._

_Desensitized to everything._

_What became of subtlety?_

_How can this mean anything to me_

_If I really don't feel anything at all?_

_I'll keep digging_

_Till I feel something._

_Elbow deep inside the borderline._

_Show me that you love me and that we belong together._

_Shoulder deep within the borderline._

_Relax. Turn around and take my hand._

_\- Stinkfist, Tool_

~

 

Steve woke up to a loud _bang_ and an angry shout and was on his feet halfway to Bucky’s bed before colliding with another body and finally forcing his eyes open to see –

“Wade?”

Steve was aware of an arm around his waist and realized the body he’d collided with was a messy-haired Bucky.

Wade stood in the doorway holding a cast iron pan in each hand, laughing so hard tears were streaming down his cheeks. Steve and Bucky stood in the center of their room, awkwardly embracing with Steve’s attempt to force Bucky into cover behind his body resulting in an off-balance rock star clinging to him to stay upright while blinking sleep out of his eyes.

Steve disentangled his limbs from Bucky’s warmth and took a threatening step closer to Wade.

“Wade, that is not cool, ever,” he admonished as Wade wiped tears from his eyes with the back of one hand.

“Cap, that was very cool. Bucky shouted in Russian, which is always a bonus.”

“Fuck you, Wilson,” Bucky snarled, his voice gravelly from sleep.

“Come on, guys,” Wade said, motioning with a pan, “it’s much too lovely a day to stay in bed. Alone, anyway. Let’s go do something.”

Bucky grumbled what sounded like curses in half a dozen languages (Steve recognized a few choice French insults aimed at Wade’s manhood) and stumbled into the bathroom.

“Chop, chop!” Wade called out, before leaving the room, banging his pans as he went. There was an angry shout from Rumlow and an exasperated admonishment from Sharon before the inn settled back into quiet. Steve wasn’t sure the other guests staying there were too happy, either.

He heard the toilet flush, then running water, before a slightly more awake Bucky emerged from the bathroom, pulling the t-shirt he’d slept in over his head. Steve looked away from the sight of Bucky, warm and tousled, in just his boxers, and instead started making his bed.

“You wanna shower?” Bucky asked him.

“You go ahead, I need to check in with Shield,” Steve answered without looking at Bucky, and nearly jumped out of his skin when a cool finger poked him in the ribs.

“Hey!” he complained, turning to face a grinning Bucky. “Between you and Wade my poor heart’s gonna give out.”

“Aww,” Bucky pouted, “you want some peace and quiet, Grandpa?”

Steve resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at Bucky. “I’m still younger than you.”

“You sure about that? I swear I see a few grey hairs – hey!” Bucky dodged as Steve aimed to grab at him, laughing.

Steve took Bucky’s amusement as opportunity and pulled his head down, running his knuckles over Bucky’s scalp while the other man squirmed, chortling helplessly and trying to step on Steve’s toes.

“Not so old now, am I?”

“Okay, okay, uncle,” Bucky was breathless with laughter, his cheeks pink when Steve let him go. “I’m gonna get you for that!”

“Yeah? Bring it, Bieber,” Steve taunted.

Bucky’s smile turned suddenly dangerous, and Steve had only a second to process that he was in trouble, before Bucky was on him, tackling him to the ground. Straddling Steve, Bucky started tickling him, and Steve howled in laughter, writhing futilely trying to get away. For several moments Steve marveled at how two thirty-something men could be roughhousing like kids, before he registered Bucky’s body on top of his. Warm and heavy, all hard planes and smooth muscle beneath all that tattooed skin and so goddamn close that Steve could smell him, musky and sweet.

The laughter died on Steve’s lips and Bucky stilled, his eyes wide and so incredibly blue that Steve thought he’d drown, then the weight lifted off him and Bucky was across the room in a heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, voice husky, and grabbed his shower bag, disappearing into the bathroom before Steve could get to his feet.

Steve cursed under his breath, and looking down to where his pajama bottoms were tented over his erection, the word ‘trouble’ looping through his mind.

By the time Bucky was done with his shower, everything was back to normal. Or as normal as anything with them ever was, as if they’d silently agreed to put that morning behind them and pretend it never happened.

They went into town with Wade, then had lunch back at the inn with everyone else.

At dinner, it was Wade who help up a pink flyer with an air of triumph.

“Karaoke?”

“Karaoke!”

 

The club was dimly lit, with a little too much pink glitter, but there wasn’t a large crowd and the band didn’t draw too much attention as they made themselves at home around a table, Steve sandwiched between Sharon and Bucky.

“Okay,” Brock held up his hands, “band rules apply to Rogers too, or not?”

“Yes!” Wade and Bucky said at the same time.

“Band rules?” Steve asked.

“We each _have_ to do a song,” Sharon explained, “and we’re not allowed to choose our own song.”

“And I suppose I can’t just sit this one out?”

“Nope,” Bucky said, smirking.

Steve gave a long suffering sigh. “Fine. But no Journey, please.”

Wade laughed and clapped Steve on the back as a waitress approached.

“Steve,” Bucky said, leaning so close his breath tickled Steve’s cheek, “have a drink with us, come on.”

“Buck, I’m-.”

“Working, I know,” Bucky said, his face falling a little.

Steve mentally cursed himself for his next words and for the effect Bucky had on him. “One beer.”

Bucky’s smile lit up the entire room as he relayed Steve’s order with his own to the waitress.

“You know, the whole peer pressure thing isn’t fair,” Steve told him.

Bucky just grinned at him, eyes bright.

Watching the band karaoke was a lot of fun, and Steve slowly sipped his beer, grateful that one wasn’t enough to get him buzzed.

“You’re up!” Wade yelled to him after his soulful rendition of Careless Whisper. “Your song’s set, have fun!”

“What song?” Steve asked as Wade passed him on his way to the stage.

“Toxic, by Britney Spears,” Wade said with a smirk.

“What? Wade, no!”

“Nuh-uh, don’t blame me, Bucky chose it.”

Steve made his way onto the stage and sent Bucky a death glare as the music started, certain he was blushing hard enough to spontaneously combust. Bucky just smirked and tipped his beer bottle to those expressive lips of his.

Steve steeled himself, and started singing.

_Baby, can’t you see_

_I’m calling_

_A guy like you_

_Should wear a warning_

_It’s dangerous_

_I’m fallin’_

_There’s no escape_

_I can’t wait_

_I need a hit_

_Baby, give me it_

_You’re dangerous_

_I’m lovin’ it_

Through the entire song, Bucky just watched Steve, his face mostly expressionless, toying with his beer bottle. It was a strange sensation, almost intimate, and it set Steve’s nerve endings alight, even as he moved in time to the music, and he was infinitely grateful when it was over. Bucky was up after him, striding onto the stage with a smirk on his face that quickly faded when he saw the song Wade had picked out for him.

“Aw, fuck, Wade! You know I can’t rap for shit!” Bucky called from the stage, but Wade only flipped him off as the music started. Then Bucky was rapping and Steve was pretty sure his jaw hit the floor.

 

_His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy_

_There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti_

_He's nervous, but on the surface he looks calm and ready to drop bombs,_

_But he keeps on forgetting what he wrote down,_

_The whole crowd goes so loud_

_He opens his mouth, but the words won't come out_

_He's choking how, everybody's joking now_

_The clock's run out, time's up, over, blaow!_

_Snap back to reality. Oh, there goes gravity_

_Oh, there goes Rabbit, he choked_

_He's so mad, but he won't give up that_

_Easy, no_

_He won't have it, he knows his whole back's to these ropes_

_It don't matter, he's dope_

_He knows that but he's broke_

_He's so sad that he knows_

_When he goes back to his mobile home, that's when it's_

_Back to the lab again, yo_

_This whole rhapsody_

_He better go capture this moment and hope it don't pass him_

_You better lose yourself in the music, the moment_

_You own it, you better never let it go_

_You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow_

_This opportunity comes once in a lifetime_

Bucky had the crowd (which had grown as the evening wore on) on their feet before the second verse, and was met with cheers and shouts of “Encore!” by the time the song ended.

He seemed a little overwhelmed by the attention, and leaned down to say something to the technician, then the first unmistakable strains of I Love Rock & Roll were met by more deafening cheers, and Bucky moved his whole body to the beat. The sight went straight to Steve’s crotch. He downed his beer, shifting in the hard seat and trying to keep his gaze on Bucky’s face instead of those hips swaying so sinfully to the music. He was almost grateful when the song ended and Bucky jumped off stage to head back to the table. Instead of taking his seat however, Bucky leaned across the back of Steve’s, his lips inches from Steve’s ear.

“You have a good voice, Stevie. We should do one together.”

Steve’s brain short-circuited for a second from Bucky’s sweaty proximity.

“I couldn’t, really,” he finally gasped out, and Bucky leaned forward even more, to pout at him.

“You’re no fun,” he said quietly, his breath tickling Steve’s lips.

“Tragic, isn’t it?” Steve quipped weakly and Bucky chuckled, still too close, too immediate.

“James!” Rumlow’s voice broke the moment, and Bucky straightened, leaving Steve a little cold as his body heat was taken away. They ordered more drinks and Wade and Scott did comedic rendition of Shake It Off, then they were outside again, in the cool air, heading back to the inn, and Bucky was slowly turning inward again. His expression turned hard and cold as he and Steve entered their room. He tugged off all his clothes, save his underwear, with his back to Steve, and got into bed without a word.

Steve sank down onto his own mattress, suddenly bone tired. Bucky was the most mercurial person he’d ever met, and everyday left him feeling like he had severe whiplash. If he could just figure Bucky out, maybe he could find some way to really help him. Because Steve would be damned if he just left Bucky to self-destruct on his own. Steve was so lost in thought, it took him several moments to realize Bucky was mumbling in his sleep.

“No, please don’t make, please, it hurts, it hurts, I don’t wanna, don’t wanna, please don’t no, please _please no_ …”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did write a new Bucky chapter, but I decided to post this first because I'm lazy. I'll post the Bucky one tomorrow, so keep an eye on the series for that.
> 
> Gratitude and pink glitter to everyone who's kudo'd and commented, y'all rock!


	14. It's Not Worth The Time To Try To Replenish A Rotting Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Suicide Note pt II by Pantera.
> 
> 'Jimmy' is a diminutive form of the name James, for anyone unfamiliar with English names. 
> 
> I'm not too happy with this chapter, honestly. It was supposed to be a little different at first, then I blinked and it was 200 words too long and kinda weird. I figured, if anything here affects the plot in the next three chapters, I'll rewrite it and post it again with chapter 15. 
> 
> Also, I spent yesterday watching Stranger Things and it's like the best thing ever, and I can totally see that it would become Bucky's favorite show and he'd make Steve watch it with him and they'd argue about Alien and E.T. references.  
> Have you guys seen Stranger Things? Do you love Eleven and Dustin as much as I do? Please fangirl with me in the comments.

_Stapled shut, inside an outside world and I'm_

_Sealed in tight, bizarre but right at home_

_Claustrophobic, closing in and I'm_

_Catastrophic, not again_

_I'm smeared across the page, and doused in gasoline_

_I wear you like a stain, yet I'm the one who's obscene_

_Catch me up on all your sordid little insurrections,_

_I've got no time to lose, and I'm just caught up in all the cattle_

_Fray the strings_

_Throw the shapes_

_Hold your breath_

_Listen_

_I am a world before I am a man_

_I was a creature before I could stand_

_I will remember before I forget_

_Before I forget that_

_I'm ripped across the ditch, and settled in the dirt and_

_I wear you like a stitch, yet I'm the one who's hurt_

_Pay attention to your twisted little indiscretions_

_I've got no right to win, I'm just caught up in all the battles_

_Locked in clutch_

_Pushed in place_

_Hold your breath_

_Listen!_

_My end_

_It justifies my means_

_All I ever do is delay_

_My every attempt to evade_

_The end of the road and my end_

_It justifies my means_

_All I ever do is delay_

_My every attempt to evade_

_The end of the road._

_\- Before I Forget, Slipknot_

~

 

Download was chaos. The days leading up to the festival weekend were lazy and relaxed, and Bucky spent most of the time reading, while Steve texted Nat and Sam and Clint, feeling slightly homesick, and grateful that he had a weekend off as soon as the band were back Stateside.

Then Friday arrived and the band were herded to the festival grounds for interviews and introductions.

Steve remained at an unobtrusive distance during interviews, but found himself dragged to the forefront by Bucky every time members of another band made an appearance, as if mere proximity to the musicians could somehow fill Steve with an appreciation of their music.

“Rammstein, Steve, they’re industrial and scary and so good.”

“Nightwish, Steve, just listen to their new album, you’ll like it. 

“Disturbed, Steve, go Google their cover of The Sound of Silence right now.”

“That’s _Dave Mustaine_ , Steve! Oh my God, he’s a legend, and his guitar playing, holy shit!”

“Steve, _Steve,_ that’s Ozzy! Fuck, fuck, shit, oh my God…”

“Bucky!” Steve exclaimed. “Calm down, pal.”

Bucky looked at Steve, his cheeks slightly pink, in part from all the bourbon he’d consumed, but mainly from excitement over the long-haired old man currently ambling in their direction.

“Calm down?!” Bucky looked disbelieving. “You do know who that is, right?”

“Yes, I do.” And it was true.

“So you know that it’s fucking impossible for me to calm down!”

“You’ve met him before though, what’s the big deal?”

“I haven’t!” Bucky looked offended at Steve just assuming something so major.

“Oh. Well, he’s just a person, Buck,” Steve tried to reason, and immediately realized he’d said the wrong thing when Bucky’s face twisted.

“His music saved more fucking lives than you ever did, Rogers.” Bucky spat and turned away, only to find himself face to face with the subject of their discussion.

Ozzy Osbourne smiled at Bucky, and held out his hand. “Hello, mate. I loved that last album, can’t wait to have ya at Ozzfest.”

Bucky’s cheeks flushed a frankly spectacular shade of dusky pink, his hand trembling as he clasped the older man’s.

“I… wow… thank you, Mr Osbourne, Ozzy, I mean.”

Ozzy clapped Bucky on the shoulder and moved on, leaving Bucky frozen and staring into space.

Steve’s flash of anger at Bucky’s words had faded at the sight of the man blushing and stammering so adorably.

“Buck?” he asked, gently nudging Bucky’s arm.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, still with that faraway look on his face. “I’m an asshole for saying that to you.”

Steve smiled at that. “It’s okay, Buck.”

“Ozzy Osbourne just told me he liked our last album.”

“I heard him. That’s pretty awesome.”

“Yeah, yeah it is.” Finally, Bucky seemed to snap out of his star struck daze and turned to Steve with a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Black Sabbath – the song, I mean, not the band – was the first heavy metal song I’d ever heard, and it made more sense than anything else in my life at that point. I was about ten, I think, and I never fell out of love with metal.”

 

Saturday was busy, with last minute arrangements for their set that evening and yet more interviews and a meet and greet with fans.

It was almost painfully sweet when two kids told Bucky _his_ music had saved their lives. Bucky’s face crumpled slightly as he pulled them in for a long hug.

After that, Sharon called the band together with a frown. “Our wildcard song won the Twitter poll,” she told them and Bucky cursed.

“We know the song, though,” Rumlow said, “what’s the issue?”

“I’m not one hundred on the lyrics,” Bucky admitted, eyes down.

“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Rumlow started but Rollins cut him off.

“You have three hours, James, isn’t that enough to get it down?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded. “I’ll need headphones.”

 

Bucky plopped himself on the grass close to the back of the stage, headphones on and eyes closed, while Steve stood nearby, watching him. He made an entrancing sight, all in black, cross-legged, hands moving through the air, lips forming silent words.

Less than an hour later, Bucky’s flew open and he tugged off the headphones. He stuck his tongue out at Steve who’d moved closer and held out a hand to help him to his feet.

“You got it?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, thank God.” Bucky shook his head. “I really thought Paranoid would win the poll today, though.”

“Uh huh.” Since Steve didn’t know either of the songs, he wasn’t much help with the reasoning behind the poll results.

Bucky gave a long-suffering sigh.

“James!” Rumlow yelled as Steve and Bucky approached the band outside the beer tent. “Did you learn the fucking song?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, swiping Wade’s almost-full beer.

“You sure? I don’t remember you being that sharp with new songs, ya know.” Rumlow’s voice was just loud enough to draw glances from nearby people.

Bucky just shrugged which seemed to make Rumlow angrier.

“Remember that time you fucked up on one of our songs when we opened for Marilyn Manson?”

Bucky paled a little. “Yeah, Brock, I do. What’s your point?”

“Nothin’, nothin’. Just sayin’, you know.”

Bucky took a gulp of beer and walked away, Steve following after a last glance at Rumlow’s grin. They didn’t go far, stopping around the same place where Bucky had sat to learn the song.

“I need a hit,” Bucky grumbled.

“No, you don’t,” Steve told him.

Bucky gave a scathing little laugh. “You’re such a goody two-shoes.”

“Maybe,” Steve shrugged. “But there are better ways of dealing with stuff.”

“You’re so eloquent, Stevie,” Bucky said, his smile a little cruel.

“Why don’t you stand up to Rumlow?” Steve pressed and Bucky snorted, taking another swig of beer.

“That’ll just make shit worse.”

“So you’d rather just sit back and let him bully you?”

“Fuck you!” Bucky barked. “You don’t know shit about anything, guard dog, so heel.”

Steve flinched at that, hot anger pressing up into his throat. “You don’t get to do that, Barnes. I’m here because of your own recklessness, don’t throw this in front of me like I’m the one to blame.”

“Oh right, I forget, you’re too perfect to be blamed for anything, aren’t you? I’ve never needed a fucking bodyguard, Steven, everything was fine until you got here!”

“Yeah, James,” Steve said, “I could tell from the stab wound and the orgies and the drug habit.”

“Fuck you, Stevie,” Bucky sneered.

“That’s really mature, _Jimmy_ , you can-,” Steve started, but the rest of his sentence was cut off as pain flared across his jaw and he realized Bucky had punched him. Bucky, who was suddenly pale as death, shaking, his breath hitching in his throat as he stared at Steve with wide, shocked eyes.

“Don’t,” he whispered, “don’t call me that. Don’t ever call me _that._ Please.”

“Okay,” Steve said quietly, rubbing his jaw, “okay, I’m sorry.”

Bucky looked down at his clenched fist, his lips pressed into a tight line that almost seemed to snap when he spoke. “You make me so angry sometimes, Steve.”

“Do you want me to call Shield, get someone else in my place?”

“What? No!” Bucky shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. Unless you’d prefer that, after…”

Steve was debating how to answer, when Sharon’s voice sounded behind him.

“James! James, you need to be onstage in thirty minutes, you have to go change!”

She came jogging up to them, slightly out of breath.

“Yeah, okay, let’s go,” Bucky said, still looking expectantly at Steve.

“Go,” Steve told him, “we’ll discuss things after your set.”

Bucky nodded, and turned to sprint toward the band. Steve followed with Sharon, who pointed to his jaw.

“You should put some ice on that.” Her tone conveyed that her job meant more than her curiosity and Steve was grateful.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get you some from the beer tent while the guys change.”

“Thanks, Sharon.”

 

Sharon came back with an icepack in time to shepherd the band onto the stage and Steve studiously avoided Bucky’s eyes. Maybe it would be better to go. To let Natasha or someone else take over, so he could get Bucky out of his head, out of his system. But then he got a glimpse of Bucky’s face as he greeted the crowd, slightly more subdued than usual, and all thought of leaving fled.

The first song started with a rolling bass line, building up until Bucky brought the microphone to his lips and _screamed,_ and sixty thousand people screamed with him. Steve’s breath caught at the sight. He recognized the song, thanks to his diligence in catching up with Siberia’s discography, but hearing that scream through his headphones paled in comparison to the effect of hearing it live. The song was a fast one, with a melodic chorus, and Bucky’s voice cut a swathe through the din.

_“And all the fire, all the flame_

_Won’t make this broken soul whole again_

_And all the truth and purity_

_Won’t save me from the misery.”_

Steve leaned against a support beam, still pressing the icepack to his jaw, while Sharon tapped something out on her tablet next to him. He moved his jaw, wincing. _Bucky sure can throw a punch_ , Steve thought, but with fondness more than malice.

The set progressed, until they started a song Steve didn’t recognize. He nudged Sharon.

“Is this the Twitter song?”

“Yeah,” she said, “Metabolic by Slipknot.”

 

_“Gone - I couldn't murder your promise_

_Right before my eyes_

_The revolutions of my psychosis_

_Kept me outta the way_

_Once inside all I hold is ash..._

_Fail - suppressing every feeling_

_I'm in so much pain_

_I have every fuckin' right to hate you_

_I can't take it!_

_The hardest part was knowing that I could never be you_

_Now all I do is sit around and wish I could forget you_

_My demise - I took a life worth living and_

_Made it worth a mockery_

_I deny - I fold, but they keep on coming_

_I'm always ready to die_

_But you're killing me_

_Who are you to me? Who am I to you?_

_Is this a lesson in nepotistic negligence?_

_By default, you are my only link to the outside_

_Psychosomatic suicide_

_Where were you when I was down?_

_Can you show me a way_

_To face every day with this face - goodbye_

_When I blur my eyes, they make the whole_

_World breathe - I see you fucking me_

_And I am absolutely controlling every urge_

_To mutilate - the one and only answer_

_So much for memories_

_I wanna dress in your insecurities_

_And be the perfect you - I'm through_

_I'm out-stretched out for all to loathe_

_Here we go - the ultimate irony.”_

Bucky ended the song with another protracted scream that Steve was sure hurt his throat, before launching directly into their closing number.

They ended the set and Bucky walked off stage behind the rest of the band, looking bone tired. Wade insisted they stay to see Black Sabbath, and they all remained at the side of the stage for the next two bands. Bucky sat down on a large black crate, wiping sweat from his face with a towel someone had pressed into his hand. Steve handed him a bottle of water which he accepted with a husky thanks, his voice nearly gone.

After the Black Sabbath performance – that had even Bucky on his feet – they trooped back to the van which would take them back to the inn. The band had elected not the stay on the festival grounds, though Wade had lamented all the groupies he’d miss out on.

Back in their own room, with its twin beds – Steve’s neatly made and Bucky’s looking like a tornado had hit it – Bucky closed the door and leaned back against it. He ran a hand through his hair, still damp with sweat, and looked at Steve through his ridiculously long eyelashes. His teeth sank into his bottom lip, emphasizing the cupid’s bow of the upper one. The expression might have been alluring, sexy, but somehow he looked like a child who’d done something bad and was waiting for his parents to decide how long he’d be grounded.

“Bucky,” Steve started, but Bucky cut him off.

“Stay,” he said, his expression shifting again, to something darker, his voice gruff. “I don’t want a different bodyguard, Steve.”

“You punched me, Bucky,” Steve said evenly, “you insulted me.”

Bucky stepped away from the door, toward Steve, his movements lithe, graceful, powerful, his expression altering, lips quirking, eyes becoming heavy-lidded. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you, Steve.”

He raised a hand to Steve’s jaw, fingers ghosting over the bruise forming there, his whole body flush against Steve.

“Tell me what to do, Stevie,” he whispered, husky and breathy. “Tell me what to do to make you stay.”

“Bucky,” Steve’s throat clenched against the word. Bucky was too close, too immediate, too warm and vital against him, and the gears in his mind were grinding to a halt.

Bucky’s lips were a hairsbreadth from Steve’s, his breath a scorching wind against Steve’s skin. “Anything you want, Stevie. Take it. Take _me._ ”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to all the wonderful kodu-ers and commenters. You guys are really cool.


	15. Has Life Played A Trick, Sealed You In Brick By Brick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know I said the new chapter would be up last Monday, and it's more than a week late, I'm sorry. We went on holiday and the place where we stayed had no internet, there was barely a phone signal, so that wasn't ideal. Then we came home and it was a rough few days here and that makes everything difficult, especially focusing on writing. So I apologize for the delay. 
> 
> Chapter title from Domination by Pantera. The song Bucky sings is Sure Feels Right by Sixx:A.M (it's really good, y'all should give it a listen.)
> 
> This chapter is a little filler-y, but that's because this is only about two thirds of what I wrote, and the rest will make up the beginning of the next chapter. I didn't want to post the whole thing, since stopping it where I did makes a lot more sense that 500 words later where there's no clear cut-off point and I'm rambling, sorry, I'll stop now.

_I'm becoming less defined as days go by_

_Fading away_

_And well you might say_

_I'm losing focus_

_Kinda drifting into the abstract in terms of how I see myself_

_Sometimes I think I can see right through myself_

_Sometimes I can see right through myself_

_Less concerned about fitting into the world_

_Your world that is_

_Cause it doesn't really matter anymore_

_No it doesn't really matter anymore_

_None of this really matters anymore_

_Yes, I am alone but then again I always was_

_As far back as I can tell_

_I think maybe it's because_

_Because you were never really real to begin with_

_I just made you up to hurt myself_

_I just made you up to hurt myself, yeah_

_And I just made you up to hurt myself_

_And it worked._

_Yes, it did._

_There is no you_

_There is only me_

_There is no fucking you_

_There is only me_

_Only_

_Well the tiniest little dot caught my eye and it turned out to be a scab_

_And I had this funny feeling like I just knew it's something bad_

_I just couldn't leave it alone, I kept picking at the scab_

_It was a doorway trying to seal itself shut_

_But I climbed through_

_Now I am somewhere I am not supposed to be, and I can see things I know I really shouldn't see_

_And now I know why, now, now, now I know why_

_Things aren't as pretty_

_On the inside_

_\- Only, Nine Inch Nails_

_~_

 

_Bucky’s lips were a hairsbreadth from Steve’s, his breath a scorching wind against Steve’s skin. “Anything you want, Stevie. Take it. Take me.”_

 

Every fiber of Steve’s being wanted to do just that, and it was only through sheer force of will that he pushed Bucky away, gently, his hands on the other man’s shoulders.

“No, Buck.”

Something flashed across Bucky’s face, gone too fast for Steve to decipher.

“Steve, just-,” Bucky started, but Steve cut him off.

“No!” The word came out angrier that he meant it to and he mentally cursed himself when Bucky recoiled. He softened his tone when he spoke again. “Why do you do that, Buck?”

“Do what?” Bucky was immediately on the defensive, that familiar petulant attitude rearing its head.

“That. The seduction thing.”

“You’re insane,” Bucky sneered at him. He took a couple of steps backward, pressing himself against the door again, his arms crossed over his chest.

“That’s the third time you’ve done it with me, Buck. Pull that expression over your face like a mask, and say the words just right. I’m not an idiot.”

Again, that same fleeting mien crossed Bucky’s face, and this time Steve recognized it as _shame_ and guilt and something darker, colder. He took a shaky breath, seemingly lost for words, withering slowly under Steve’s steady gaze.

“I… Steve, I just… I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”

“So trying to seduce me was the only thing you could come up with?”

Bucky’s gaze flashed up to meet Steve’s, then immediately fell back to the ground. He shook his head, folding his arms tighter around himself, and Steve realized it was to hide the fact that he was trembling.

“Bucky,” he said, as gently as he could, “just talk to me.”

“I don’t want to,” Bucky whispered.

Steve sighed. A thousand conflicting thoughts and feelings raced through his mind, each more convoluted than the last, as he looked at Bucky, looking at the ground, looking miserable and tired and cold.

“Why don’t you have a bath?” Steve suggested at length, “try to wind down a little?”

Bucky gave a tiny nod, and, stepping past Steve to grab his stuff, locked himself in the bathroom.

 

It was a long time before he came out, hair wet, wearing sweatpants and a soft grey t-shirt. Steve was sitting on his bed, sketching, but he put down the pencil as Bucky sat down on the end of his bed.

“I’m sorry. For insulting you. And for punching you. I didn’t mean to; I swear to God. I didn’t even realize what I’d done until after it happened. I’m sorry, I really am.”

“Thank you, Bucky,” Steve said, giving a little smile. “I’m sorry for calling you – “

“Don’t, please don’t say it again,” Bucky cut in, a little desperately.

“Okay. Sorry.” Steve badly wanted to ask why the name was taboo, but didn’t dare, not while Bucky looked so tremulous and close to tears. Instead he held out his sketchbook to show Bucky what he’d been drawing.

It was a sprawling depiction of the Ravenclaw House crest, only one of the eagle’s wings not yet shaded.

Bucky’s face lit up as he took it in. “This is amazing, Stevie,” his voice was barely there, all the exertion of the evening finally taking its toll on his vocal cords.

“It needs some color,” Steve said as Bucky handed the book back after ghosting his fingertips over the paper.

Bucky gave a little nod. He blinked slowly, and rubbed the back of one hand over his eye, like a little kid. Steve’s heart clenched painfully.

“Bucky, are you sure you don’t want Shield to send someone else as your bodyguard?”

“Do you want to go that badly?” Bucky countered, then cleared his throat.

“It’s not my decision to make,” Steve dodged the question, feeling like his heart was beating at the back of his mouth, simultaneously nauseated and like he was going to choke on it.

Bucky looked at him for a long moment, and Steve wondered what he was seeing. “I don’t want a different bodyguard,” he said at last, then moved to his own bed and crawled under the covers, his back to Steve.

 

Their flight back to New York left on Wednesday evening – after several days spent doing small shows and radio and TV appearances – the band, Sharon and Steve taking up most of the business class section of the Airbus A320. Bucky gave Steve the window seat again, and settled in for the flight with a Cyrillic copy of a Stephen King book. Firestarter, judging by the cover art. Steve sketched and messaged Clint and Sam by turns, feeling more and more homesick as each hour passed, in a way he rarely did during assignments.

 

They landed safely, and trouped wearily into a Hydra Records van, driven by Sharon, with Scott next to her, Rollins and Rumlow next to each other in the next row of seats and Steve sandwiched between Bucky and Wade in the back.

Scott fiddled with the radio, switching from station to station.

“Scott, turn that up!” Bucky called to him as the opening chords of a song began on a station Scott had paused at. Scott did as Bucky asked, and the music filled the van as they inched forward in the rush-hour city traffic.

Bucky tilted his head back and sang along.

 

_“The traffic's backed up on the 405_

_And the smog's so thick you can cut it with a knife_

_But it gives me time_

_To think about my life_

_I take the 10 to the 5 to the 101_

_I got a song sitting here on the tip of my tongue_

_And the more I drive_

_The more I feel alive_

_Well I don't know what you're doing to me_

_But it sure feels right_

_Well I don't know what you're doing to me_

_But let's do it all night_

_When the sunlight breaks through the LA sky_

_For some damn reason it makes me smile_

_And I don't know what you're doing to me_

_But it sure feels right_

_I'm driving down Sunset Boulevard_

_Sex Pistols on the radio in my car_

_And I must be high_

_I just saw Jesus walk by…”_

 

_Because it sure feels right  
Just singing to the radio..."_

In that moment, Steve was blindingly, devastatingly in love. Around Steve, existence faded and there was only him and Bucky. Bucky with a lopsided grin on his perfect lips in the watery sunlight filtering through the clouds above them. The moment ended with the song, but Steve felt shaken for the rest of the drive to the Hydra Records building, a glass and steel structure in Midtown.

They trooped into the elevator to go up to the 38th floor, tired and jet-lagged. It was almost a shock to the system to be greeted by Alexander Pierce in a crisp three-piece suit and tie, sitting behind his dark wood desk, looking alert and formal. In contrast, the band, Sharon and Steve, all in jeans and dark shirts, with circles under their eyes and an air of rough living around them, seemed out of place in the sleek office. Steve mostly zoned out as they discussed the band’s itinerary for the coming week, mainly centered on them going into the studio to start work on the new album, though Bucky interjected – much too quietly – that he already had more than a dozen songs written, which earned him an approving nod from Pierce.

“Go home, get some rest,” Pierce told them at last, “and enjoy your weekend, Mr Rogers, we’ll see you again on Monday.”

Steve nodded and gave a low thanks, then realized Bucky was staring at him with something like betrayal in his eyes.

“You have the weekend off?” Bucky hissed at him as soon as the band had gone their separate ways outside of the Hydra building, it’s ugly skull and tentacle logo glaring down on them from above the entrance.

“Yes,” Steve said calmly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bucky was glowering.

“I thought you knew. Didn’t you get a copy of my work schedule when I started?”

“No, I fucking didn’t!”

“Calm down, Buck.” They were attracting attention. People with their iPhone cameras pointed none-too-subtly at the rock star throwing a tantrum outside his record label’s building, surrounded by their luggage.

Bucky’s gaze flitted quickly around them, and he grabbed Steve’s short sleeve, pulling him around and down toward the underground parking lot adjacent to the Hydra Records building, luggage in tow. He didn’t stop until they were standing next to a pitch black Mustang.

“Is this your car?” Steve asked, awed at the sleek lines and shine of the paintjob, the hints of blood red detailing.

“Yeah,” Bucky snapped, popping the trunk. “A little help here?”

Steve helped him load their suitcases into the car, a little surprised that it all fit, then stepped around to the side of the car again. He ghosted his hand along the roof, not quite touching.

“She’s gorgeous,” he told Bucky. “What year is she?”

“’68,” Bucky said, his tone still clipped, but slightly warmer, his lips twitching as he looked at Steve. “Get in.”

Steve slid into the front seat next to Bucky, and couldn’t help but let his fingertips brush over the genuine leather upholstery.

“God, do you two need a room or something?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow.

Steve grinned at him. “Maybe.”

Bucky let out a groan and started the engine. The powerful roar went through Steve the same way looking at Bucky on stage did, and he let out a little whimper. “Oh, baby, that’s good.”

“Ew,” Bucky said drily, as he pulled out of the garage.

“Where are we going?” asked Steve, a few blocks later.

“To pick up Fred,” Bucky replied, like it should be obvious.

“Where is she?”

“At a friend’s place. I don’t like leaving her at my place for longer than a couple of days at a time.” He reached forward and switched on the radio, and the car flooded with the choppy guitars of System of a Down.

They drove in silence for a while, and Steve let his head loll back against his headrest, jet lag tugging at him. He had just fallen into a light doze when a gentle slap to his shoulder roused him.

“Wake up, punk, we’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting and kudoing, as always. I'll try not to make you wait too long for the next chapter.


	16. Each Razor A Vice And Each Nail Marks The Demise Of Your Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Domination by Pantera.
> 
> According to an interview with Fred van Lente, Steve lived in a neighbourhood of Brooklyn called Dumbo in the 30's and 40's, and that's where my Steve and Sam lives. Clint lives in Brooklyn Heights and Nat lives in Manhattan. Because it will never get mentioned in-fic.

_Hello baby gimme your hand_

_Check out the high spots the lay of the land_

_You don't need a rocket or a big limousine_

_Come on over baby and I'll make you obscene_

_I feel safe in New York City_

_Movin' all over like a jumpin' bean_

_Take a look at that thing in the tight ass jeans_

_Comin' your way now you may be in luck_

_Don't you fret boy she's ready to buck_

_I feel safe in New York City_

_New York, New York, New York_

_I feel safe in a cage in New York City_

_\- Safe in New York City, AC/DC_

_*_

_Shattered, shattered_

_Love and hope and sex and dreams_

_Are still surviving on the street_

_Look at me, I'm in tatters!_

_I'm a shattered_

_Shattered_

_Friends are so alarming_

_And my lover's never charming_

_Life's just a cocktail party on the street_

_Big Apple_

_People dressed in plastic bags_

_Directing traffic_

_Some kind of fashion_

_Shattered_

_Laughter, joy, and loneliness and sex and sex and sex and sex_

_Look at me, I'm in tatters_

_I'm a shattered_

_Shattered_

_\- Shattered, The Rolling Stones_

~

 

‘Here’, Steve saw, was a tattoo parlor called Asgard Tattoo and Piercing Realm.

Steve got out of the car and raised his hands above his head to stretch, hearing something pop in his lower back. 

“Hurry up, Zoolander,” Bucky called from the sidewalk and Steve felt like flipping him off. He stuck his tongue out instead.

A bell above the door tittered as they entered the tattoo shop, and a young woman with flowing dark hair and bright red lips jumped up from her seat beside the large shop windows, dropping the book she’d been reading on the floor.

“Bucky!” she squealed and threw her tattooed arms around his neck, the skirt of her floral-print sundress flaring out around her calves.

“Hey, Darcy,” Bucky said, smiling and lifting her off her feet in a bear hug.

It took a few moments for the two to separate, then the girl turned her gaze on Steve.

“Who’s the Adonis, Bucky?”

Steve’s cheeks seemed to catch fire as Bucky let out a little bark of laughter.

“Steve is my bodyguard. Steve, this is Darcy, tattoo artist and cat sitter extraordinaire.”

Steve gave a little wave and a sheepish smile. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Darcy said, then turned to Bucky. “Why would you need a bodyguard?”

“Pierce hired him.”

“Oh.” Darcy’s gaze was significantly colder when she looked back at Steve, who shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably.

Bucky didn’t seem to care too much about Steve’s discomfort, and instead looked around the empty parlor. “Where’s Thor?”

“He and Jane went to some nerdy space exhibit or something.”

“Sounds fun, for Jane at least.”

“Thor’s into that too, he’s just a lot weirder about it.”

“Yeah, well, what do you expect from a guy who believes Odin is real?”

Darcy smirked at that. “Fred’s upstairs if you wanna get her.”

Bucky nodded, turning to Steve. “I’ll just be a second.”

Steve nodded and turned to look at the artwork splashed across the walls. The pieces were really good, but definitely done in two distinct styles. One focused on bold color and defined shapes, like fantasies and fairytales brought to life. The other was darker, grittier, realistic and sharp, barbed wire and broken glass.

“So, bodyguard, huh?” Darcy piped up from behind Steve.

“Yeah,” he said, turning to face her.

“You don’t look like one.”

Steve looked down at his Jack Skellington t-shirt and gave a little smile. “Wade and Bucky insisted on giving me a makeover.”

“Why’s Bucky mad at you?” asked Darcy, and Steve jerked a little with surprise. She was a lot more perceptive than he’d have thought.

“Because I didn’t know that he didn’t know that I have the weekend off, and I never mentioned it.”

Darcy raised an eyebrow and Steve gave a little shrug and turned back to the art on the wall.

“This is really good,” he said, motioning toward a sketch of the New York skyline that looked like it had been done shortly after the apocalypse. “Did you draw it?”

“Yeah,” Darcy said, with a little nod. “Thor does the colorful ones. He’s hooked on Norse mythology and Lord of the Rings in equal measure.”

Steve’s lips quirked in a lopsided smile, just as Bucky came back into the shop, his arms full of grey fur, a large pet carrier dangling from one index finger.

“Steve, Fred. Fred, Steve,” he said, unceremoniously shoving the fur, which had eyes and _claws,_ into Steve’s hands. “Hold her a second.”

Steve looked at the bundle, which stared back with the most adorable little face he’d ever seen. “Hey, Fred, nice to meet you,” he told the cat, who stuck her tongue out a bit and closed her eyes.

Bucky opened the carrier, and, as if sensing what was about to happen, Fred tensed.

“Just gently put her inside,” Bucky told Steve, holding the carrier up.

 _Gently_ – after two attempts and several deep scratches across his arms – Steve got Fred into the carrier and glared at Bucky, who was whispering endearments through the little bars in the door.

Steve hissed a little as he inspected his arms. The deepest scratch had blood beading along it.

“Here,” Darcy had appeared with a first-aid kit, “let me clean those.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, playing up the pouty puppy dog face for Bucky, who had the good grace to look apologetic.

 

They left Asgard with a sleeping Fred in her carrier, and Bucky reverted back to sulky and petulant so fast it made Steve’s head spin.

They stopped at a Starbucks and Bucky held Fred’s carrier close to him, though inside most eyes were fixed to screens and no one seemed to notice the animal that definitely wasn’t allowed in the coffee shop. They stepped into the preposterously long line in front of the counter, Bucky’s brows pulled together over his stormy eyes.

“When does your weekend off start?” Bucky demanded, his tone sharp.

“Technically it started the moment the plane landed.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“We’re getting coffee,” Steve said, waving his hand at their surroundings.

“You’re not being paid to babysit me now, so go away.”

Steve clenched his jaw against the sting of Bucky’s words.

“Why are you mad at me? I thought you knew I got free time.”

“I didn’t know.” Bucky seemed angrier than was justified by the situation.

Steve sighed. “I’m sorry for the miscommunication, okay?”

Bucky just scoffed, his eyes on the ground.

“You know what? You’re right, I’m not being paid to be here,” Steve snapped. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

He stalked out of the Starbucks, got his luggage out of Bucky’s mercifully – irresponsibly – unlocked car and left, without a backward glance, grinding his teeth, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. Maybe some time away from the maelstrom that was Bucky Barnes would do him some good.

 

Steve almost felt like sobbing as he opened the door to his apartment and saw Sam, Nat and Clint, all grouped around the kitchen island. They enveloped him in welcoming hugs and questions about the tour and Steve grinned like an idiot, unutterably happy for their friendship. They ordered pizza, and drank beer and played Cards Against Humanity and if Steve periodically wished Bucky were there, it was only a side-effect of his constant proximity over the last few weeks.

Nat and Clint left just after midnight, both kissing his cheeks and giving him the kind of hugs that let him know they knew he wasn’t entirely okay and that that was okay.

He and Sam settled on the couch and Steve let his head fall back, giving the shaky sigh he’d been holding in since leaving Manhattan.

“So, you wanna wallow some more, or do you want to talk about it?” Sam asked, and Steve gave him a little smile.

“He’s just so volatile, Sam. I don’t know how to deal with it, how to help him.”

“It’s not your job to help him, Steve.”

“Like hell it ain’t.” Steve pushed himself to his feet. “Goodnight, Sam.”

“Night,” Sam said after him as he disappeared into his bedroom.

Steve’s bed, with its hard mattress, dark blue sheets and lumpy feather pillow, enveloped him, as good as any lover’s embrace. _Bucky’s arms would feel better,_ his traitorous mind whispered, and Steve pressed his face into his pillow to stifle his frustrated groan.

Most of Friday was taken up by doing laundry, while Sam watched and gave a running commentary.

“What the hell is this?” Sam asked incredulously that evening while Steve folded his clean clothes. He held up a black shirt bearing a picture of a man getting punched in the face.

“It’s a Pantera shirt,” Steve told him.

“Pantera?” Sam’s eyebrows seemed to be planning relocation to his hairline.

“They actually made good music,” Steve said, amused at the distaste on Sam’s face.

“You’ve gone to the Dark side, man.”

“I understood that reference!” Steve exclaimed, proud of himself.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Good for you.”

 

Friday night was quiet, just Steve and Sam watching How to Get Away with Murder and eating Ma Wilson’s recipe fried chicken. Steve stayed reticent about Siberia and Sam didn’t ask, for which Steve was immeasurably grateful.

Saturday evening found Steve, flanked by Sam, Nat and Clint, entering a bar called Luke’s. It was definitely worth the travel time from Dumbo to Hell’s Kitchen, since it was one of those places frequented mostly by locals, and ignored by the steady gentrification of the neighborhood.

Luke himself – a stoic black man a few inches taller than Steve – came out from behind the bar to greet them, and Steve even got a smile from his girlfriend Jessica, a rare treat.

They took a table in the corner beside the window after getting drinks, and Clint leaned forward eagerly, one hand held up.

“Okay, guys, never have I ever!”

There was a collective groan from everyone, but Sam cleared his throat.

“Never have I ever cheated at Mario Kart.”

Both Clint and Natasha drank, and Steve gave his trademark ‘disappointed in you’ frown.

“Never have I ever,” started Clint, “had a crush on a musician.”

Sam and Nat drank, but Steve kept his hand stubbornly away from his glass.

“Steve,” Clint raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve never had a crush on a musician,” Steve stated. And it was mostly true. What he felt for Bucky was definitely not a _crush._

Clint and Sam looked at him disbelievingly, but Natasha came to the rescue by stating that she’d never worn the same underwear two days in a row, and all three men groaned and drank.

The game continued and Steve thanked his high alcohol tolerance that he was barely tipsy by the time Clint started making pigeon jokes and Nat started laughing at them.

“Hey, isn’t that…” Sam muttered, staring over Steve’s shoulder.

“Stevie!” An achingly familiar voice spoke from behind Steve at the same moment.

Steve turned, just in time to be folded into a bear hug by a very intoxicated Bucky Barnes.

 _One weekend,_ Steve griped to whichever deity was inclined to listen, _I couldn’t have just one weekend to get my head on straight?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was only supposed to contain one scene with Bucky. Well done, me. *slow clap for failure*.
> 
> Yes, Luke is Luke Cage and Jessica is Jessica Jones. I couldn't not give them cameos. 
> 
> And, if anyone was wondering, Buck's car looks a little like this:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (If that turns you on a little bit, you are not alone - that car is sex with a V8)


	17. Full Of Grief I Scream At The Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A real chapter, yay!
> 
> There is something Bucky talks about in this chapter that may not make much sense if you haven't read his POV chapter, [Blood Sugar Sex Magik](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7888132) so pretty please read that? The whole thing is about his issues with Pierce, and I know you guys are hella curious about that. 
> 
> Chapter title from Live in a Hole by Pantera.

_Withering eyes catch you as you fall_

_A bitter sigh - no one moves at all_

_Let me in for one more long disgrace_

_Just forget the same distractions you refuse to face_

_We both know that it’s gone… but what if no one knows_

_No one knows to remember why it’s wrong?_

_This is all the pain a man can take_

_This is how a broken heart still breaks_

_I don’t need much to show you, only enough to control you_

_Bury your head inside this and gather the darkness that binds it_

_I think I’ll die if you deny me, swallowed alive in eternity_

_Give me a way to be the agony that knew you all along…_

_Push it down and hide me from this waste_

_Don’t hold back - I’d kill to take your place_

_Tell me a lie… tell me you don’t care_

_Just forget a storm is coming - just forget you’re scared_

_We both know how this ends… but what if no one knows_

_No one knows how to kill us in the end?_

_This is all you need for who you are_

_This is how a good man goes too far_

_This is all the pain a man can take_

_This is how the blackest heart can break_

_I think I’ll die if you deny me, swallowed alive in eternity_

_Give me a way to be the agony that knew you all along…_

_I’ve known you all along_

_\- Sadist, Stone Sour_

 

~

 

Steve slid off his chair, while trying to disentangle Bucky’s limbs from his. He stood up straight and frowned down at the rock star.

“Are you high?”

Bucky made a puppy dog face. “Just a little bit,” he whispered, then grinned and waved at Steve’s friends. “Your friends are real!”

“More or less,” Steve grumbled. “That’s Sam, Natasha and Clint. Guys, meet James Barnes.”

His friend smiled and greeted Bucky, while Steve quickly looked around.

“Are you here with anyone?” he asked the dark haired man.

“Here? No. Wade came out with me, but he doesn’t like it when I _do drugs._ ” The last two words were said in a stage whisper.

“Neither do I,” Steve said in annoyance, “come on, let’s go.”

“Go where? I just got here,” Bucky frowned at him, swaying a little on his feet.

“You’re wasted,” Steve snapped, “I’m taking you home.” He circled his hand around Bucky’s bicep when the other man looked about to bolt and leaned down to speak to Sam.

“Sorry, man. I think I’ll just go back home after I’ve taken care of this.”

“He called you _Stevie_ ,” Sam snickered.

“Shut up,” Steve grumped and grabbed his jacket with his free hand.

Once outside, Bucky turned to Steve, his eyebrows pulled together. “You’re angry,” he observed.

“Damn right,” Steve bit out, putting up his hand to hail a cab.

“At me?” Bucky asked.

“Yes,” Steve said, a little impatiently, tugging Bucky toward the cab that pulled up at the curb.

“Why?” Bucky asked, his eyes suddenly comically wide.

“Get in the cab, Buck.”

Bucky did what Steve ordered, still looking at him, wide-eyed.

“Why are you angry?” he asked again.

“Because you’re drunk and high, Bucky. What’s your address?”

Bucky gave an address in Brooklyn Heights, his gaze downcast. He gave a little sigh, which might’ve been adorable if Steve wasn’t mad.

“Stevie?”

“What, Bucky?”

“Were you having fun with your friends?”

“Yeah, I was.”

Bucky gave another little shuddering sigh. “M’sorry,” he mumbled.

Steve didn’t say anything, and minutes later, Bucky was snoozing, his head against Steve’s shoulder.

They pulled up outside a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights and Steve shook Bucky’s shoulder.

“Buck, wake up, we’re here.”

Bucky blinked blearily, getting out of the cab and immediately sinking down to sit on the sidewalk, his chin resting in his hand, eyes closed. Steve paid the cab fare and nudged Bucky, who let out a little snore.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Steve muttered, bending down to haul Bucky to his feet.

Bucky grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Don’ wanna,” he mumbled.

“Bucky, your keys!” Steve said, loudly, right next to Bucky’s ear, and was rewarded when the other man jumped a little. He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a keychain, which he handed to Steve.

Steve unlocked the front door and stepped into the dark house. Bucky turned on a light somewhere, closing the door behind him.

“What did you take?” Steve demanded, following him as he stumbled toward the kitchen.

“Not sure,” Bucky said, quietly. “A few lines of coke, couple of pills, lots of bourbon.”

“Goddamnit, Bucky.”

“Hey, tour’s over. This is what I do. You want a drink?” Bucky pulled a bottle of vodka from the freezer, and Steve instantly grabbed it from him.

“No. I’ve had enough and you’ve had way too much.”

Bucky pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“Your kind of fun will _kill you_ , Bucky!” Steve burst out.

Bucky just shrugged, and staggered out of the kitchen, switching on more lights as he went. Steve stopped dead in his tracks as the room in front of him was illuminated. The house had an open plan kitchen/dining/living area, large and airy, but this looked like one third kitchen/living area and two thirds library. Most of the walls, flaring out from the large picture window, were covered in floor to ceiling bookcases, overflowing with books. Steve stepped closer to one bookcase, and realized there was no order to the books. Hardcover and paperback, fiction and non-fiction, English and a variety of other languages, all haphazardly shoved into any available space. It made him a little seasick to look too long.

Bucky had plopped down on a black couch. Most of the other furnishings Steve could see were also black, with touches of red here and there. Despite the color scheme, the place was cozy, mostly thanks to the bookcases, but also due to the exposed brick and the art on the other walls, the hardwood floors and fireplace. Steve looked a little closer at a black and white drawing of a city skyline and recognized the work as Darcy’s.

“Okay, you’re home safe, I’ll see on Monday.”

“No!” Bucky was off the couch like a shot. “Wait! Just wait a second.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “What is it, Bucky?”

Bucky bit his lip. “Thank you, for bringing me home.”

“You’re welcome,” Steve told him, and turned to go, but was stopped by Bucky grabbing his arm and immediately letting go, as if Steve had burned him.

“What, Bucky?” he said in exasperation.

“How… how does the bodyguard thing work now we’re in New York?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… do you commute? In Europe you stayed with us, is it different here?”

Steve sighed. “It depends, I suppose. If a client feels safer having me live with them, I do that. If not, I commute.”

“Oh.” Bucky bit his lip, suddenly looking extremely uncomfortable. “And if I want you to live here?”

Steve started in surprise. “Do you? I couldn’t help but get the impression that you don’t really enjoy having me around.”

“It’s…” Bucky was staring resolutely at the floor. “It beats the alternative.”

“The alternative being?” Steve raised a questioning eyebrow.

Bucky looked at him like he was both naïve and dimwitted. “You know…”

“Know what, Bucky?”

“You really didn’t figure it out?”

“Figure what out?” Steve asked, his heart suddenly beating a little too fast. Did Bucky actually enjoy having him around? Did he like Steve, romantically?

“About Pierce.”

The words felt like a bucket of ice water over Steve’s half-formed fantasy of Bucky admitting his deep attraction to him.

“Pierce?” Steve tilted his head to the side.

“Never mind,” Bucky said, looking almost… crestfallen. “But I would prefer you living here. I don’t exactly keep nine to five hours.”

“Are you going to freak out every time I have a day off?”

“Not if you actually tell me about it,” Bucky retorted, a little sharply.

“Fine,” Steve said. “See you on Monday.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, quiet again. He let Steve out, giving him a tiny smile as he shut the door.

 

Steve started walking, and was lucky enough to get a cab on the corner of Bucky’s street. He wasn’t sure at all about living with Bucky. Still, he reasoned, it couldn’t be worse than the time Shield had assigned him to a paranoid schizophrenic dignitary, who was convinced Steve was a lady called Marla, sent to kill him by aliens from Neptune.

 

“He calls you _Stevie_!”

Steve loved his friends, but he didn’t have to like them right now.

“Please stop,” he begged Clint, who was guffawing. Sunday brunch had devolved into a make-fun-of-Steve exercise and neither Sam nor Nat was coming to his rescue.

“Stevie!” Sam said in a gruff voice, pretending to flip his hair.

“Do you call him Jimmy?” Nat asked, and Steve shook his head.

“He punched me the one time I tried.”

“He punched his precious Stevie?!” Clint said in mock-horror.

Steve let his head thunk down on the table.

“He has a pet name for you, and you still expect us to believe you didn’t screw?” Sam’s face had skepticism written all over it.

“I work for him, Sam.”

“That didn’t stop the girl from Fifty Shades,” Clint said.

“Ew,” Steve, Sam and Nat chorused.

“It’s a valid point,” Clint said, stuffing a mushroom into his mouth.

“No, it’s not. And I do not sleep with people I work with, okay?”

“Yeah, right,” Nat said.

“Nat’s just jealous, ‘cause she’s had a crush on him for ages and you’re the one being called pet names,” Sam said, earning himself a death threat from Natasha.

“Can we please change the subject now?” Steve begged.

“No!”

“No.”

“Nope.”

Steve thunked his head back down on the table.

 

The ribbing mercifully ended during their second round of Mario Kart that afternoon. They were all too competitive to let such trivial matters as Steve’s rock star fantasies get in the way of their precise aiming of green shells.

“Eat my bananas, motherfucker!” Clint whooped as he overtook Sam, and then instantly groaned as Steve hit him with a red shell.

Steve laughed, overtaking Nat to speed over the finish line in first place. “I am king of the Kart, people,” he gloated, earning a kick in the ribs from Sam who was sitting above him on the couch.

“Shut up and start the next race, we’ll see how long you keep that crown.”

 

 Steve managed to put the following day out of his mind until that evening, when he finally got around to packing. He shoved clothes into his suitcase indiscriminately, his thoughts on Bucky’s statements about Pierce. What had he been supposed to figure out? Was it some or other arrangement Pierce had made regarding him guarding Bucky while in New York that Steve didn’t know about? Or was Bucky just too high to really make sense? He had been half-asleep, after all. He thought back to the conversation he’d had with Sharon, about how Bucky always acted out around Pierce, despite the older man treating him like a son. Maybe their dynamic was just too convoluted and off-kilter for anyone on the outside to make real sense of. It frustrated Steve, not knowing what was going on. At least, here in New York, Pierce would be around more often and Steve would be able to see for himself what was going on between him and Bucky.

Steve frowned at a Siberia shirt as if it could give him an explanation, then shoved it roughly into his suitcase when it stayed mute.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and much love to everyone who takes the time to comment and kudo, y'all are awesome.


	18. Imprison Myself And Stay In A Shell, I Won't Let You In To Have A Story To Tell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Live in A Hole by Pantera.
> 
> Okay, I know it's been ages since my last update and I'm sorry. I've had enough written for three short chapters (or one huge chapter) for weeks, and I've just not posted. Life's been... not great for a little while, and I'm really ill (booked off work for two weeks), so doing anything that requires more than a click of a mouse hasn't been too appealing. I'll post what I've written over the next few days, but after that, I'm not sure how fast I'll be writing (if at all), so I apologize in advance for sloooowww updates for the rest of 2016. I do really wanna finish this, though, not only because I'm excited for y'all to read it, but also because I've been working on another fic that touches on a topic I'm really nervous to even write fanfic about. 
> 
> Anyway, this is here. Enjoy.

_I want to fly into your sun_

_Need faith to make me numb_

_Live like a teenage Christ_

_I’m a saint, got a date with suicide_

_Oh Mary, Mary_

_To be this young is oh, so scary_

_Mary, Mary_

_To be this young I’m oh so scared_

_I wanna live, I wanna love_

_But It’s a long hard road out of hell_

_I wanna live, I wanna love_

_But It’s a long hard road, out of hell_

_You never said forever could ever hurt like this_

_You never said forever could ever hurt like this_

_Spin my way out of hell, there’s nothing left this soul to sell_

_Live fast and die fast too_

_How many times to do this for you?_

_How many times to do this for you?_

_I wanna live, I wanna love_

_But it’s a long hard road out of hell_

_Sell my soul for anything, anything but you_

_Sell my soul for anything, anything but you_

_\- Long Hard Road Out of Hell, Marilyn Manson_

~

 

Monday morning found Steve ascending the steps to the front door of Bucky’s brownstone. He’d overslept, barely had time to swallow a mouthful of coffee, let alone eat breakfast, accidently fell on his ass as he was tying his luggage to his bike, and was entirely sure he’d left his phone charger at home. All in all, it was not one of Steve Rogers’ better mornings. The streak continued when the door was opened by a bleary-eyed, clearly hungover, almost naked man, who was _not_ Bucky Barnes.

“Who’re you?” the man mumbled, pushing his auburn hair off his forehead. He was dressed in nothing but green boxer briefs.

“I’m Mr Barnes’ bodyguard,” Steve stated, using his certified military-grade death glare.

“Uh, right,” the man stumbled back from the door, shouting over his shoulder, “Hey, James, there’s a scary Greek god who says he’s your bodyguard!”

If Steve were a god, Mr Auburn with the abs and the hazel eyes would definitely be number one on his to-smite list, he thought venomously.

“Stevie!”

Bucky appeared around the corner leading to the kitchen, mercifully wearing sweatpants. “I see you’ve met… uhm… Kyle, right?”

“Yeah,” Kyle said, his face falling a little, and Steve almost, _almost,_ felt a little sorry for him. “I was just leaving.” He trudged away, presumably to gather his clothes, while Bucky raised an eyebrow at Steve.

“Coffee?”

Steve nodded, dumping his suitcase in the hall to follow Bucky to the kitchen. Bucky filled two mugs, handing one to Steve before desecrating his own with an unholy amount of sugar and cream. Kyle came back downstairs and Bucky went to see him out while Steve stayed seated on his stool by the breakfast bar. There was only so much he was willing to endure on a Monday morning. A grey lump of fur pushed herself into the kitchen through the half-open window and trotted along the counter top to push her head against his hand so he could scratch her ears.

“Mornin’, Fred,” he said to the cat, running his fingertips over her silky fur. “You’re a classy dame, climbing through the window like that.”

Fred purred and licked the side of his thumb.

“She likes you,” Bucky’s voice said from behind him.

“I’m surprisingly likeable,” Steve said drily, scratching under Fred’s chin.

Bucky came around to the opposite side of the breakfast bar, picking up his mug to sip at his coffee.

“You look all prim and proper again,” he remarked.

Steve looked down at his blue button down and tan slacks, and shrugged. His clothing had nothing to do with Bucky, after all.

After a long pause, Bucky set his cup down and tucked his hair behind his pierced ears.

“Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not,” Steve said coolly.

“And water isn’t wet.”

Steve huffed out a breath. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just not really up to putting on my happy face right now.”

“Because you’re mad at me,” Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not too enthusiastic about your lifestyle choices.”

“What, because of Kyle?”

“No,” Steve said, mostly honestly, “not your sex life.”

“Oh,” Bucky looked down at his bare feet. “The drugs.”

“Ding, ding, ding.”

“Why does it matter to you?” Bucky asked, that petulant little pout tugging at his mouth again.

“That’s a stupid question, Buck.”

“It’s really not.” Bucky’s gaze was fixed somewhere above Steve’s left eyebrow. “You work for me, remember? You’re not my friend, you barely know me. I’m not going all Nikki Sixx in ’87, I’m not hurting anyone.”

“Except yourself,” Steve said, none too gently.

Bucky actually laughed. “No, see, I’ve felt hurt, getting high is nothing like that.”

“It feels that way because you’re an addict.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m not listening to your preaching, okay? Just drop it.”

Steve clenched his jaw. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll…” Bucky cast around for a viable threat, waving his hand through the air. “If you don’t drop it, you won’t get dessert after dinner!”

For a second Steve’s fingers itched to wrap around Bucky’s neck, then he burst out laughing. Bucky followed, glancing at Steve from under his lashes, his grin boyish and mischievous.

“Damnit, Buck,” Steve admonished, but he was still smiling and it felt too nice not being angry for him to go back to their argument. Instead, he asked, “What’s Nick six and eighty-seven?”

“Nikki Sixx, the bassist from Mötley Crüe, in the year nineteen eighty-seven.”

“Who did… something?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and motioned for Steve to follow him to the living room. He walked over to one of the bookcases and pulled out a dog-eared copy of a book that looked like it was splattered with blood, and handed it to Steve. The Heroin Diaries, a Year in the Life of a Shattered Rock Star, by Nikki Sixx.

“It’s good, you should read it,” Bucky told him, and Steve gave a little nod, already flipping through the first few pages. The book was all but falling apart, which meant Bucky had read and reread it several times, and Steve felt a small warmth in his chest that Bucky was sharing this tiny bit of himself with him.

“Come on, I’ll show you your room,” Bucky nudged Steve’s shoulder as he spoke.

He retrieved his suitcase from the hall and followed Bucky up the hardwood staircase that opened into a hallway with four doors, three to the sides and one at the end.

“That’s a bathroom,” Bucky pointed out one door on the left, then motioned to the other, “that’s my studio.”

He stopped at the door on the right. “Ta-da.”

It was a large bedroom, done in shades of gray and white, with a double bed made from dark wood, with matching bedside tables, and a large television fixed to the wall opposite.

“En-suite’s through there,” Bucky pointed, “and the closet’s there.”

“It’s nice,” Steve commented, putting his suitcases beside the bed.

“My room’s at the end of the hall.”

“I figured,” Steve tilted his head.

Bucky gave a little smile. “We have to be at the studio in an hour, so make yourself at home, I’m gonna shower.”

“Have fun,” Steve told him, turning to start unpacking. It was a quick process, and he even had time to add the song Bucky was singing in the shower to his playlist (Black by Pearl Jam) and contemplate exactly how thin the walls were, before curiosity got the better of him and he decided to explore. His en-suite bathroom was nice, done in dove grey, with a bath and shower. He wandered out of his room and down the hall, peeking into the other bathroom – red and copper – and then stuck his head around the half-open door of Bucky’s studio. It was much larger than Steve expected, two of the walls lined with shelves containing yet more books, but also action figures and electronics that all seemed to have a musical purpose. There was a black leather armchair and several stools, grouped around a long countertop taking up most of the other two walls, housing a desktop computer and laptop, a soundboard, and more gadgetry. Most of the floor space was devoted to instruments. An electronic drum kit, a keyboard on a stand, several guitars and a bass guitar, as well as a _violin_. Steve stepped closer to the instrument on its stand, leaning toward it. It was made from a wood so dark it was almost black, with a rather impressive maker’s mark on the neck. His fingers itched to touch it, but he knotted them behind his back instead. He’d ask Bucky if he could draw it, he decided, straitening up, just as a voice spoke from behind him, making him jump.

“Hey there.”

He turned to face Bucky, suddenly unsure if he was even allowed in there.

“I was just doing a perimeter check,” he fibbed and Bucky let out a bark of laughter.

“You’re a terrible liar, Stevie.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“’S fine. The studio’s not off limits, by the way. Just don’t go all psycho rock star and trash the place, okay?”

“I don’t know how I’ll resist, though. There are just so many breakable things in there.”

Bucky laughed again, giving him a light kick on the shin. “Watch it, Axl.”

“You play the violin?” Steve couldn’t stifle his curiosity any longer.

“Sort of,” Bucky said, making a face.

“Sort of?”

“I play the wrong way around, because of my left arm,” Bucky said, motioning to it.

“Why don’t you play guitar the other way around?”

Bucky pointed to an acoustic guitar. “That one’s left-handed.”

“That’s… really impressive, Buck,” Steve said, a little awestruck.

“It’s not. Being able to do something isn’t the same as being good at it,” Bucky hedged, leading the way down the staircase.

“First the language thing, and now this? Is there anything you can actually admit to being good at without going all humble and self-deprecating?”

“Sex,” Bucky answered, simply. Except that it wasn’t said cockily, or cheekily, instead he said it in a too-flat tone of voice, his face going completely blank. It scared Steve for a moment, and he reached toward Bucky’s shoulder.

“Buck?”

Like flicking a switch, Bucky’s expression changed, that flirty, seductive mask slipping over his features.

“S-E-X, Stevie,” he purred, biting his lip. “I could show you sometime.”

“Don’t do that,” Steve snapped, and the mask slipped, leaving the real Bucky in its wake, suddenly vulnerable.

“Why not?” he asked. “You’re gay, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but I also work for you,” Steve reminded him, “besides, I don’t…” he trailed off, realizing he’d almost waded into dangerous territory.

“You don’t?” Bucky questioned.

“Nothing,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“You don’t… want me?” Bucky guessed. “It’s okay, I wouldn’t want me either.”

Before Steve was even sure he’d heard right, Bucky was downstairs, turning into the kitchen, saying something to Fred. Steve was left with a strangely echoing afterimage of Bucky, dressed in a black Henley and skintight blue jeans, looking so goddamn beautiful it hurt behind Steve’s ribs and burned all the way down to his thighs, saying _it’s okay, I wouldn’t want me either_ and Steve was too fucking weak to say or do anything other than stand there like an idiot with his mouth agape.

“Steve,” Bucky called from the front hall, “come on, Pierce has a thing about punctuality.”

Steve approached him, opened his mouth to say… _anything_ , and Bucky cut him off, talking a little too fast about a new band someone had suggested to him, the monologue lasting all the way to his Mustang, where he turned up the music just too loud for conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember to check out the Bucky POV chapter [Blood Sugar Sex Magik](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7888132) and the rest of the works in the series for a more immersive story and stuff. Thanks.


	19. Can't Tell The Strangers From The Friends You Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Psycho Holiday by Pantera.
> 
> Lookout for a supernatural cameo in this chapter (wink wink)
> 
> Also, Roland is an amalgamation of Andy Sneap, Rick Ruben, Bob Rock and Ross Robinson, all great producers, and yes, I did steal the name from Stephen King, and yes, Roland = Idris Elba (because that man is freaking gorgeous and I love him and his amazing voice).

_I stand before you as a victim, as the system rots_

_I couldn't focus, so I staggered when I heard the shots_

_There are no labels and no rehabilitation here_

_You are surrounded by the very fucking thoughts you fear_

_All you want is soulless_

_All you got to break us_

_Hear me._

_I watch the hope I had disintegrate before my eyes_

_I take a minute and reflect on all your fucking lies_

_Behind the door, you have two choices, but you don't get to choose_

_You can survive or you can die - either way you lose_

_I can’t betray_

_I can’t betray myself_

_Choose_

_\- Choose, Stone Sour_

~

 

The recording studio was a maze of corridors, offices and booths, and Bucky stopped frequently to talk to the various people milling about. One such stop was punctuated by a tug of the leg of Steve’s pants. He looked down to find a little girl with dark caramel skin, her curls stuffed into two bunches behind her ears, and a strangely familiar grin.

“Are you famous, mister?” she asked.

“Nope, sorry,” Steve said with a little smile.

“Aw, that’s okay,” she told him, “I’m not famous either.”

“Ellie!” A voice called down the corridor, and Steve turned to see Wade approaching them, a frown on his face. “What did I say about staying where I can see you?”

“’S not my fault your eyes are so bad,” the girl said sulkily. “I was talking to the not-famous man.”

“Obviously,” Wade said, lifting the girl onto his hip. “Steve, meet Ellie, my daughter. Ellie, this is Steve, he’s a friend of Uncle Bucky’s”

“Nice to meet you, Ellie,” Steve said, shaking hands with the girl, who giggled. “I didn’t know you had a daughter, Wade.”

Wade smiled, the kind of smile that radiated love and beauty and happiness. “I try to keep her away from the tumult as much as I can.”

Steve nodded in understanding, just as Ellie perked up, yelling, “Uncle Bucky!”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky said, letting Wade deposit the beaming child into his arms. “I love the hairdo.”

“Daddy can’t do braids,” she informed them, tugging on Bucky’s hair as they proceeded down the corridor. “You should do braids.”

“I’ll be sure to try it out,” Bucky told her, not seeming bothered by her hands tugging his hair into a twisted rat’s nest. “How’s school?”

“Good. Stacy did better at English, but I do best at math and Daddy said he’d take me to go ice-skating ‘cause I did so good.”

“That’s cool,” Bucky told her. “I suck at math, maybe you could teach me sometime.”

“Sure,” Ellie patted Bucky’s cheek.

The conversation continued all the way to the suite the band was using, and Steve tried to ignore how Bucky being so at ease and sweet with Ellie tugged at a delicate place behind his ribcage.

“He’s great with kids,” Wade said quietly, as Steve sat down between him and Bucky at a long table, where the rest of the band were sitting. Bucky let Ellie perch on his knee to continue playing with his hair. Wade pulled out his phone, and turned it to Steve to show a picture of Ellie and another young girl, who Steve recognized as Scott’s daughter, Cassie, sitting on either side of Bucky, his hair done up in several tiny ponytails with pink and purple hair ties, with face slathered in make-up, giving a grin and a thumbs up.

Steve’s choking laughter drew Bucky’s attention and he frowned at Wade.

“I told you to delete that, man!”

“And miss out on embarrassing you? No way, Buck.”

Bucky covered Ellie’s eyes and flipped them both off, just as Alexander Pierce entered the room, followed by Sharon, who was laden with pastry bags and coffee.

“Manna from Heaven,” Scott sighed, getting up to help her.

They took their coffee and bear-claws and looked up at Pierce.

“So,” the older man said, “first things first, we have some good news. You’re wanted for the soundtrack of the movie _Ennui_.”

“The Darren Aronofsky movie?” Bucky asked from behind his messy hair.

Pierce gave Ellie a cold look she luckily didn’t see, before replying. “Yes, that one.”

“That’s awesome!” Scott said, grinning. The rest of the band seemed to agree with him.

“You have two weeks to write and record a song.”

“Two weeks?” Bucky emerged from behind his hair. “That’s not enough time!”

“You’ll make it enough. This is a big opportunity for you,” Pierce said and Bucky withered under his gaze. “You’ve written songs in less time. Once it’s done, if they like it, you fly out to the studio to shoot an accompanying music video.”

“Why the rush?” Rumlow asked.

“The studio and the director had some differences of opinion over the soundtrack that have kept them deadlocked for several months. The director finally won out.”

There were nods and murmurs of assent from the band.

“After that,” Pierce continued, “we will begin work on your album in earnest. For now, a representative will be here any moment to show you some footage of the movie and explain the general plot. After that, you’ll have Sharon and Roland for the day.”

He left the room, and excited chatter started up again. As far as Steve could tell, the movie was a big deal. Ellie, finally tired of playing hairdresser with Bucky, climbed off his knee and came to stand between Steve and Wade.

“I told you you’d get bored here, Eleanor,” Wade told her, and she gave a pitiful sigh. “Where’s your backpack?”

As she went off to get her pack, the door opened and a nervous looking guy peeked inside.

“Hi,” he said, giving a little wave, “I’m Osric, I’m here to talk about Ennui?”

“Yeah, hi, come on in,” Sharon said, standing up to introduce everyone.

“I love your music,” he said, a little shyly after the introductions had been done and he’d taken a seat.

“Thanks, dude,” Wade grinned at him.

“I’m not supposed to be here, right?” Sharon asked Osric, who nodded.

“Also,” he said, looking at Ellie. “The movie’s most likely getting an R rating.”

“Eleanor,” Wade poked his daughter gently, “can you go with Sharon for a little while?”

The girl stopped rummaging in her My Little Pony backpack and smiled at Sharon. “Okay.”

Osric’s gaze fell on Steve next, who smiled at started to get up, but Bucky gripped his forearm, hard, and pushed him back in his seat.

“My bodyguard stays,” he told the kid, his tone absolute.

“Uhm, yeah, bodyguard, okay.” The poor kid blushed, looking a little flustered, and Steve just knew he was asking himself why James Barnes, who could be really scary when he wanted, would need a bodyguard.

“I’ll go,” Steve told Bucky, quietly, again moving to stand, but Bucky’s grip on his arm tightened.

“You’re staying,” he said, his eyes cold as he looked at Steve.

“Fine.” Steve slumped back in his chair, and Bucky released his arm.

The kid showed them a DVD of footage from the movie, explaining the plot and tone in broad strokes, which Steve didn’t bother to really pay attention to. Not when Bucky was scratching at his arm and tapping his foot in a way that suggested he was jonesing for a hit.

When Osric left, Bucky immediately excused himself to go to the bathroom, not meeting Steve’s eyes as he left the room.

Next to Steve, Wade gave a little sigh.

 

The band, Steve, Sharon and Ellie moved on to the studio next, where a man was sitting on the floor, strumming a guitar. The studio was large, with rugs thrown haphazardly on the floor and stools, microphones and instruments littering the space. The man got up to greet them all, smiling.

“Roland, this is Steve,” Bucky – who’d been a lot more relaxed and less fidgety after his bathroom break – introduced him, “Steve, this is our producer, Roland Deschain.”

“Nice to meet you,” the man said, his voice deep, gravelly and warm, like dark chocolate with a British accent.

“You too,” Steve told him, shaking his hand.

Roland turned to pull Bucky into a hug, before leaning back and scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes. “If you get high in my studio again, I’ll break your jaw, got it?”

Bucky nodded, dropping his gaze, looking ashamed. “’M sorry.”

“You fucking better be,” Roland said. “You know my rules, James.”

Bucky nodded again. Steve felt like giving both Roland and Bucky hugs, for vastly different reasons.

For several hours, they all sat around, discussing ideas and playing a cord or beat here and there, and honestly, Steve was almost bored to tears. Finally, they broke for lunch, which was eaten around the table in their suite, then Ellie’s mom came to pick her up. She was a beautiful Latina woman named Carmelita.  

“You’re not… together anymore?” Steve asked Wade, who shook his head.

“A beauty like that with an ugly old avocado like me? I’d never do that to her.” His tone clearly stated that the conversation was over and he walked away before Steve could tell him that he was anything but ugly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my knowledge, Darren Aronofsky is not making a neo-noir sci-fi spy movie called Ennui, but wouldn't it be amazing if he was??? He makes amazing movies, y'all should give them a watch. (I am aware that Sebastian Stan had a small part in Black Swan) 
> 
> I have the next chapter written and I'll try (TRY) to write the next Bucky POV chapter tomorrow, though I can't make any promises. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading, commenting and kudoing :)


	20. Shot Down On Sight, You Are The Target Of Attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Psycho Holiday by Pantera. 
> 
> So, these last three chapters chronicle Steve's first day living with Bucky in New York, and was originally written as one huge thing, that I decided couldn't be posted like that. This is the last part of that, and after this something... big... happens, so don't give up outta boredom, please.
> 
> The lyrics Bucky sings were written by me at 2AM, so sorry, they suck.
> 
> Also, no offence is meant toward the Catholic Church. Views expressed by characters in this fic are not necessarily shared by me or by Marvel. (But I do recommend watching the movie Spotlight if you haven't yet)

_It's like a stranger had a key, came inside of my mind_

_And moved all my things around_

_But he didn't know snakes can't kneel or prey_

_Try to break the psyche down_

_Yeah_

_It's as if my feathers were wax_

_And your artillery lead_

_Do you like our bed?_

_Do you like our bed?_

_Deep six, six, six feet deep_

_Deep six, six, six feet deep_

_Yeah_

_Love is evil_

_Con is confidence_

_Eros is sore_

_Sin is sincere_

_Sin is sincere_

_\- Deep Six, Marilyn Manson_

~

 

The day passed, slowly but surely, and Steve was actually relieved when he and Bucky got into the Mustang shortly after six that evening.

Bucky, however, was in an awful mood, mostly because of the time constraints on the song they needed to write for the movie.

Steve cast around for something to say to cheer him up. “So, the director of this movie, did he make anything I’d have seen?”

Bucky tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Black Swan, Noah, Requiem for a Dream.”

“I saw Black Swan. It was really, really good.”

Bucky nodded tightly, staring at the road in front of him.

“Is Noah the one that caused all that controversy with the churches?” Steve asked, and got a grunt of assent in return.

“I’ve never seen Requiem for a Dream, though,” Steve commented.

“It’s about a group of heroin addicts. You can just watch me shoot up and save yourself two hours.”

“Bucky,” Steve said.

“ _Stevie_ ,” Bucky mocked.

Steve crossed his arms and stayed quiet until they reached Bucky’s house.

“Wonder whose bike that is?” Bucky muttered, raising an eyebrow at the Harley Davidson parked across the street.

“It’s mine,” Steve said, and Bucky’s head snapped around to look at him.

“You? You ride a motorcycle?”

“Beats walking,” Steve shrugged and Bucky turned his back, trudging up the steps to his front door.

Once inside, Bucky put out some fresh food for Fred, then excused himself to go upstairs. Steve made his way to the living room, picking up the Nikki Sixx book Bucky had shown him that morning, turning it over in his hands absentmindedly, until he heard Bucky come back downstairs.

He’d changed into sweatpants and a tattered grey t-shirt, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

“Is there anything you don’t eat?” he called to Steve, rummaging in the fridge.

“Shellfish,” Steve told him, leaning against the counter.

“So chicken stir-fry okay?”

“Yup,” Steve popped his lips on the ‘p’. “Can I help with anything?”

“You can make coffee,” Bucky told him, shooing him to the other side of the kitchen so he could reach the stove.

Steve made coffee while Bucky cut strips of chicken and vegetables, switching the knife from one hand to the other between cuts, like he couldn’t decide if he was left or right handed. Now that Steve thought about it, he realized he’d never seen Bucky favor either hand, and he’d never seen him write anything with a pen and paper. The sudden, tiny mystery tickled at him, and he bit his lip to keep from asking. Instead he placed Bucky’s coffee, sweet and creamy, on the counter near him.

“Thanks, Stevie.”

“Anything else I can do?” Steve asked, but Bucky shook his head, tossing the chicken into a skillet with a drizzle of olive oil.

Steve stood out of the way and watched Bucky cook, his mouth watering a little at the aroma that filled the kitchen. It was nice, Steve thought, seeing Bucky in his own space like this. The other man hummed a little, moving fluidly on his bare feet.

When the food was done, they filled their plates and Bucky led the way to the large three-seater sofa.

“We’ll watch Noah,” he decided, flicking through Netflix while he balanced his plate on his knee.

The food was amazing and Bucky paused the movie to take their empty plates to the kitchen and came back with two pints of ice cream.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed dessert?” Steve asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I changed my mind,” Bucky said, handing him a spoon, “you were very well behaved today.”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve rolled his eyes, digging out a spoonful of rocky road.

Bucky sat down closer to him, their thighs almost touching, so they could share the ice cream and Steve found it ridiculously difficult to concentrate on the rest of the movie when he could hear Bucky’s little moans of enjoyment every time he ate a spoonful of cookie dough ice cream.

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky said when the credits started rolling across the screen, “do you go to church?”

Steve shook his head. “I used to go to Mass twice a week, but then, after my first tour, it just felt… strange.”

“Wait,” Bucky leaned away from him, his eyes wide, “you’re Catholic?”

“Lapsed Catholic,” Steve said, carefully.

“But you still believe in God, though?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah.”

“Huh,” Bucky took another spoonful of ice cream.

“Are you going to sacrifice me to Satan now?” Steve asked, puzzled at Bucky’s reaction.

“I’m an atheist, Stevie. We don’t do that, on account of not believing and all.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Steve said, wiping imaginary sweat off his brow.

Bucky chuckled at him, leaning back against the couch, tapping his spoon against his lips.

After a beat, Bucky got up, gathering the nearly empty ice cream containers and held out his hand for Steve’s spoon.

“Did a priest ever…” Bucky started, walking toward the kitchen, “you know… when you were a kid.”

Steve got up and followed him, frowning. “What? Molest me? No, thankfully. Why?”

“It’s like a thing, isn’t it? With Catholic priests.”

“Yeah,” Steve said quietly. “But I didn’t even know about it until I was in my twenties.”

Bucky nodded. He turned around and started to load the dishwasher. Steve stepped closer to help.

“Is there a reason you asked about that?”

Bucky snorted. “I was never molested by a Catholic priest; you can get that kicked-puppy expression off your face.”

“Kicked puppy?” Steve questioned, frowning.

“Yeah, you look like a Labrador puppy sometimes.”

“I do not,” Steve countered, frown deepening.

“You do. It’s cute, really.”

“I am _not_ a cute Labrador puppy, okay? I’ve had enough of you and the dog insults.”

Bucky looked up, his eyes widening a little. “It wasn’t an insult this time.”

“It usually is, though,” Steve said.

Bucky bit his lip, his hands stilling. “’M sorry,” he muttered, the same way he’d apologized to Roland that morning. “I’m a dick, I know.”

“No, you’re not. You just say shitty things to me sometimes.”

“I know. I am sorry, Stevie.”

“I know,” Steve said, putting the last cutlery in the dishwasher.

Bucky quickly washed his hands, before pointing to the ceiling. “I’ll be in the studio if you need me. Feel free to ransack the bookcases, or watch a movie or play videogames or something if you’re bored.”

Steve nodded, watching Bucky disappear up the stairs. He made himself comfortable on the couch with the Nikki Sixx book, and started reading.

 

“You’re still awake?”

Steve jumped a mile at Bucky’s voice, turning to see him looking tired and crumpled, standing at the foot of the stairs. He checked his watch and realized it was past two in the morning.

“Shit, I didn’t realize it was so late.” He held up the book in his defense and Bucky smiled.

“Seeing as you’re still up, you wanna give your inexpert advice on the Ennui song?”

“You finished it?” Steve asked in surprise, putting a slip of paper into the book to hold his place, and got to his feet

“It’s just a first draft, melody and rough lyrics,” Bucky clarified, leading the way upstairs and into the studio.

Steve perched on a stool as Bucky picked up an acoustic guitar and sat on the stool next to him.

“If your ears start bleeding from the awfulness, please tell me,” Bucky said, but his voice didn’t quite reach a joking tone.

Then he started playing, head down, fingers gliding smoothly over the frets. The melody was light, almost cheerful, and Steve couldn’t even imagine the way it would sound on distorted electric guitars. Bucky hummed a little, then stopped playing, a bark of laughter escaping his lips as he reached for the notepad and pen lying near Steve’s elbow.

“I forgot the fucking lyrics,” he chuckled, eyes scanning the illegible scribbles on the page. Steve bit his lip to hide his smile, and Bucky started playing again.

_“I take three steps backward_

_Running forward_

_Hiding in every shadow I can_

_I make three moves this way_

_Fall down the hard way_

_Been losing since this began_

_You’re hounding me_

_Hot on my heels_

_And I can’t escape_

_Cause, darling, this feels…”_

Bucky stopped playing with a groan. “That’s wrong.” He frowned at the paper.

“It sounded good to me,” Steve said. And it did. Bucky’s playing, his voice, the shape of his lips as he formed the words, his sheer proximity, were all very good things in Steve’s opinion.

“The lyrics go to shit in the chorus,” Bucky was scowling now, as he read them. “This isn’t supposed to be all touchy-feely and shit.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Firstly, the movie isn’t a romcom, and secondly, I do not write love songs.”

“Why not?” Steve asked and Bucky looked at him strangely for a moment, and tossed the notebook aside instead of answering.

“Fucking up lyrics is usually my cue to go to bed,” he said, setting the guitar on its stand.

Steve followed him out of the studio and Bucky gripped Steve shoulder for a second.

“Sweet dreams, Stevie.”

“Goodnight, Buck.” Steve watched him disappear into his bedroom before turning toward his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, comments and kudos! I'm working non-stop until the second week of October, and after that we start holiday hours, so I'm sorry, updates will be very infrequent for a while.   
> Also, I'm listening to Marilyn Manson's last three albums on repeat, so if the next few chapters are horribly depressing, please kick my ass.


	21. One Man's Misery Is Another Man's Mystery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Message in Blood by Pantera.
> 
> Wow, it's been, like, a month since the last update. I know, it sucks, and I'm sorry. Life has just been less than great lately. 
> 
> Anyway, if all goes well, the next chapter will be up within the next week or so. (Hopefully)

_Torn apart at the seams and my dreams turn to tears, I'm not feeling this situation_

_Run away try to find a safe place you can hide_

_It's the best place to be when you're feeling like_

_Me._

_All these things I hate revolve around_

_Me._

_Just back off before I snap_

_Once more you tell those lies, to me_

_Why can't you just be straight up with honesty?_

_When you say those things in my ear, why do you always tell me what you wanna hear?_

_Wear your heart on your sleeve, make things hard to believe, I'm not feeling this situation_

_Run away try to find that safe place you can hide_

_It's the best place to be when you're feeling like._

_Me._

_\- All These Things I Hate (Revolve Around Me), Bullet For My Valentine_

_~_

_Lying all alone and restless_

_unable to lose this image_

_sleepless, unable to focus on_

_anything but your surrender_

_Tugging a rhythm to the vision that's in my head_

_Tugging a beat to the sight of you lying_

_So delighted with a new understanding_

_Something about a little evil that makes that_

_Unmistakable noise I was hearing_

_Unmistakable sound that I know so well_

_Spent and sighing with a look in your eye_

_Spent and sighing with a look on your face like_

_Sweet revelation sweet surrender_

_sweet, sweet surrender_

_Surrender..._

_Thinking of you, thinking_

_Thinking of you, thinking of you, thinking of you, thinking..._

_\- Thinking of You, A Perfect Circle_

~

 

The next day, Steve was smart enough to take his book with him to the studio to stave off the boredom of listening to the band debate chord progression and hooks. He made himself at home on a chair a few paces away from where Sharon was absorbed in her laptop and continued reading about the highs and lows of heroin.

Sometime after lunch, Roland came to sit next to him and Steve closed the book on his finger to look at him.

“So… bodyguard, huh. Shouldn’t you be standing next to the door in a cheap suit?”

Steve gave a crooked smile. “For some clients, yeah, but Shield is more about discretion. I’m supposed to blend in. Be one of the guys.” He tugged at his grey Aquaman shirt. “And dress the part. It would be a lot more effective if Bucky stopped introducing me as his bodyguard to everyone.”

Roland smiled. “True that.”

 

Bucky made spaghetti for dinner that night, and Steve spilled tomato sauce on his shirt. He glared at the offending stain obscuring Arthur Curry’s face while he and Bucky loaded the dishwasher.

“Just throw it in the washer downstairs,” Bucky said, more than a little impatiently.

“Downstairs?” Steve asked, his head snapping in Bucky’s direction so fast he cricked his neck.

“The basement,” Bucky replied, setting the timer on the dishwasher.

“You have a basement?”

“And an attic.”

Steve went cold. He spun around until his eyes landed on a narrow door, half obscured by the fridge. He yanked it opened and hurried down the wooden stairs, flicking on the light as he went. A single bulb illuminated the small space. A washing machine and tumble dryer stood against the wall near the foot of the stairs, a narrow table against the far wall, with a row of cabinets above it, and a ratty black couch against the third wall. There was one narrow window, set close to the ceiling, with thin iron bars across it. Steve breath half a sigh, then spun around, hurrying up the stairs, through the kitchen, past a confused looking Bucky, and up to the second floor. There, hanging from the ceiling just outside Bucky’s studio was the cord that opened the trapdoor to the attic. Steve pulled it, tugging down the ladder that unfolded. The attic was large, with shelves covering three walls, filled with CD’s, vinyl albums and even tape cassettes. There was another couch, this one new, shiny leather, and a professional looking sound system.

Against the wall under the large, round window, gym equipment was neatly arranged.

Steve stepped closer to the window, looking out on Bucky’s neighbor’s tiny backyard garden. He breathed deeply, and closed his eyes.

“Steve?”

Steve nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Bucky’s voice. He hadn’t heard the other man ascend the ladder at all.

“Jesus,” Steve breathed, turning to face Bucky. “Don’t sneak up on people like that, Buck.”

“Sorry,” Bucky lifted a shoulder. “What’s going on?”

For a moment, Steve deliberated how truthful he could be. There was no way he could admit to being so enamored by Bucky that he couldn’t even do the basics of his fucking job. But he couldn’t lie to Bucky either.

“I didn’t do my job properly,” he admitted, trying unsuccessfully to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I was supposed to check every entrance, exit and window of this place the moment I got here. I’m sorry, Buck.” Steve swallowed hard.

“Sorry for what?” Bucky was frowning, clearly not seeing the situation clearly.

“Sorry for putting you in danger,” Steve said, and swallowed again against the bile rising into his throat. It was happening all over again. He was getting cocky, becoming weak, and fucking up. He knew he should get out before his mistakes cost more lives. _Bucky’s_ life.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Bucky said nonchalantly, either ignoring or not understanding the gravity of the situation. “No one can get in here through this window, believe me, Wade and I have tried.” He smiled, and Steve felt even worse.

“That’s not the fucking point!” Steve didn’t even realize how angry he was until the words tore from his throat, much louder than he’d intended. Bucky flinched, his eyes clouding over.

“Shit,” Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Bucky, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“S’okay,” Bucky said quietly, turning and heading back down the ladder before Steve could say anything else.

Steve cursed under his breath, pushing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. He seemed to be fucking things up more and more the longer he stayed in Bucky’s proximity, and he mentally berated himself for it as he slowly descended the ladder and closed the trapdoor. The door to Bucky’s studio was closed, a guitar riff sounding almost inaudibly through it, thanks to what must be a fair amount of soundproofing.

Steve turned into his room and tugged the stained shirt off, pulling on a soft white one in its place before going back downstairs to put it in the wash.

Returning upstairs, Steve shut himself in his room. He looked through his Shield emails, then texted Sam. His attempts to distract his thoughts failed miserably, though, and twenty minutes later he found himself lying on the large bed, staring up at the ceiling. How could he have been so stupid? So distracted that he didn’t even do the simplest, most basic task that his job required of him? The answer was simple: he was too immersed in all things _Bucky_. Steve knew the best course of action would be to call Nick Fury and ask to be reassigned. He knew it, but the thought of picking up his phone and thereby probably never seeing Bucky again made his chest tighten and his breath shorten, like he was having an asthma attack – something that hadn’t happened to him since his mother died.

Steve’s phone chimed and he reached for it sluggishly, swiping to open a text from Sam.

 

**Sam: you don’t have to save everyone man. you’re not a superhero.**

 

Steve sighed heavily and tossed his phone to the end of the bed, where it landed rather painfully against his big toe. Sam was convinced that Steve’s past in the military had left him with some sort of hero or messiah complex, which Steve found utterly ridiculous. What was wrong with trying to help people? Sam didn’t get it, Steve thought. He didn’t get his entire unit killed through a mix of arrogance and weakness.

Steve lay awake for long enough to hear Bucky open the door to the studio and seconds later close his bedroom door, and spent a moment marveling at how quietly Bucky could move, before getting up to go take a shower.

Once under the warm spray, Steve’s thoughts took a different turn. He pictured Bucky silently walking into the bathroom, wearing nothing but a smirk and his tattoos. Steve made a soft sound in the back of his throat and slid one hand down his body, lingering a little on his nipples before moving farther down. He tried to imagine what Bucky’s skin would taste like, what it would feel like to trace those intricate tattoos with the tip of his tongue, scrape his teeth over the lightly tanned skin. Steve groaned and gripped his hardening length. Would Bucky moan? Gasp? Spill soft curses and Steve’s name over his lips? Steve squeezed his eyes shut, stroking himself slowly, thumb barely ghosting over his slit. He imagined pushing Bucky back against the wall, sinking to his knees in front of him. He wanted Bucky against his lips, on his tongue, hot and hard. Steve tugged faster, reaching his free hand to brace against the wall as his knees got weak. He was so close, aching and trembling for release. For Bucky. Steve came hard, biting back Bucky’s name, his legs almost giving out beneath him.

After getting out of the shower, he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, then got into bed. Sleep eventually tugged him down, and he fell into dreams of sand and heat and corpses. Corpses with limbs missing or holes torn through their torsos, spilling viscera onto the scorching golden sand. Corpses all with Bucky’s face, sightless blue eyes wide in terror. Steve crawled through the blood, the heat, grains of sand sticking to his skin, burning as the wind blew against his face, into his eyes. Bucky was dead, he was dead and it was all Steve’s fault. Steve fumbled for his pistol, tugging it out of its holster, pushing the barrel between his teeth, but when he pulled the trigger, nothing but sand exited the barrel, filling his mouth, making it hard to breathe. He spat out the grains, trying not to choke, tasting the old copper of blood.

A low thud pulled Steve from sleep so fast that his first though was _IED!_ , before reality caught up with him; there was an intruder in Bucky’s house.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and gratitude, as always, to every single person who reads, comments and kudos, you guys all deserve a doughnut. 
> 
> Unfortunately I don't think this fic will be done before Christmas, like I had planned, mainly due to several 60+ hour work weeks over December. Being a grown-up is not fun at all. 
> 
> Ps. I really need some reader input: Which young actress would you like to see in a Siberia music video in an upcoming chapter? Please help, I keep picturing Dwayne Johnson, and he just cannot walk properly in high heels.


	22. All Along I Knew It Has Been With Me, Since I Was Just A Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Message in Blood by Pantera.
> 
> There probably won't be another chapter until mid-November, so I'd like to wish y'all a most spooky Halloween!

_I cannot disguise,_

_all the stomach pains_

_and the walking of the cranes_

_when you, do come out_

_and you whisper up to me_

_in your life of tragedy_

_But I cannot grow_

_till you eat the last of me_

_oh when will I be free_

_and you, a parasite_

_just find another host_

_just another fool to roast_

_cause you_

_my tapeworm tells me what to do_

_you_

_my tapeworm tells me where to go_

_I cannot deny_

_all the evil traits_

_and the filling of the crates_

_when you, do come out_

_and you slither up to me_

_in your pimpin’ majesty_

_but I cannot grow_

_till you eat the last of me_

_oh when will I be free_

_and you, a parasite_

_just find another host_

_just another stool to post_

_cause you_

_Pull the tapeworm out of your ass, HEY_

_Pull the tape worm out of me..._

_I'm just sitting in my room_

_with a needle in my hand_

_waiting for the tomb_

_of some old dying man_

_sitting in my room_

_with a needle in my hand_

_waiting for the tomb_

_of some old dying man_

_cause you_

_my tapeworm tells me what to do_

_you_

_my tapeworm tells me where to go_

_\- Needles, System of a Down_

~

 

Steve got out of bed, grabbed his Glock and phone from the bedside table and opened his bedroom door and quietly as possible. To his right, Bucky came out of his own bedroom, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs, a Colt held loosely in his right hand, pointing down at the floor. Steve held up his free hand.

“Stay here,” he said under his breath.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but at Steve’s frown he nodded, waving in a ‘go ahead’ gesture.

Steve crept down the stairs, focusing on the whispered voices he could hear from the direction of the living room, while sending an alert message to Shield to notify law enforcement. One female, two male, one with a slight lisp, who seemed to be giving the others instructions. Steve paused on the last stair, gun held in front of him, both hands steady on the grip, and listened.

“You’re such an idiot,” the male with the lisp said.

“Because I don’t wanna go to jail?” the other guy retorted, his breath a little too fast. Nervous.

“Can we hurry this up?” the girl asked, sounding both bored and impatient. “I didn’t pack a fucking overnight bag.”

Steve heard a metallic scratch, followed by the unmistakable sound of a butterfly knife being flipped in someone’s hand. He glanced upstairs, where Bucky was still waiting, took a deep breath, and turned the corner into the living room.

He aimed his gun at the chest of the black-clad guy holding the knife. At the sight of Steve, armed, all three the intruders recoiled a little. They looked young, late teens or early twenties, and aside from the knife, seemed to be unarmed. The guy closest to him fell back several steps and raised his hands.

“Drop the knife,” Steve said calmly, and the kid complied.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked, lisp more pronounced now.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Steve said. He inclined his head toward the couch. “You’ll sit there and wait for the cops.”

The girl and the more nervous of the two guys sank down on the leather, but the one with the lisp instead made a calculated feint, and tried dodging past Steve, toward the staircase. Steve had barely started to react when the kid was intercepted by Bucky, who had descended the stairs noiselessly, and had him in a half-nelson so fast it was almost comical. Steve turned back to the other two kids, while Bucky man-handled the third onto the couch with them. All three looked more than a little shocked to see a mostly naked rock star pull a gun out of his underwear, which convinced Steve that, while they obviously recognized Bucky, they had had no idea that it was his house they had broken into. Steve determinedly kept his gaze away from Bucky’s body until the cops arrived ten minutes later.

They sat at the kitchen counter while the kids were arrested, and an officer took their statements.

“Well,” the dark-skinned woman said, tapping her pen against her hand, “from what the kids say, it looks like some sort of gang-initiation. Break into a house and steal a trophy.”

She assured them that they’d keep an eye on the house for a few days, in case whichever gang was involved got ideas about retaliation. Bucky seemed unconcerned as he leaned back on his elbows, abdominal muscles rippling. The officer’s eyes flicked down his body, then quickly away. Steve couldn’t blame her for looking a little hot under the collar as she bade them goodnight.

Once the house was empty again, Steve got to his feet, but his ‘goodnight’ was cut off as Bucky grabbed his elbow, pulling him closer.

“Buck?”

Bucky leaned forward, eyeing Steve’s chest, then he threw his head back in laughter.

Steve frowned in disapproval as Bucky snickered, his hand still firmly wrapped around Steve’s elbow.

“I honestly don’t see what’s so funny,” Steve said.

“You…” Bucky bit back a chuckle, wiping moisture from his eyes with his free hand, “you have… the lyrics to the… Star...” more breathless laughter, “Spangled Banner…” he paused to try and catch his breath, letting out ever more high-pitched giggles, “tattooed… on your chest!”

“Yes, well, I’d just enlisted,” Steve knew getting the quote ‘The land of the free and the home of the brave’ permanently inked into his skin was not the smartest thing he’d ever done, “I was drunk and I did it on a dare.”

Bucky let out another howl of laughter, tugging heavily on Steve’s arm to keep himself from toppling off his stool. “Oh my God, this is the best thing ever.”

Steve gave the most disapproving frown he could manage. “It’s just a tattoo. Don’t you regret any of yours?”

“Sure,” Bucky said, still fighting chuckles down, “the poop emoji on my ass was a bad idea.”

“You do not have a poop emoji tattooed on your ass,” Steve stated.

“Well, no, but it would still be better than the words to the national anthem!” More giggles.

“I’m so happy I amuse you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

“Aww, Stevie, don’t be mad,” Bucky swallowed his giggles, giving Steve a little pout. “Have a cup of tea with me.”

“Fine,” Steve sat down, but continued to frown as he watched Bucky drop teabags into two mugs.

“Hey, Steve?” Bucky asked after a while, as he handed Steve a green Luigi mug. “Did you have a nightmare earlier?”

Steve froze with the tea halfway to his lips. “Why do you ask?”

Bucky looked down, fiddling with a spoon. “The walls are paper thin.”

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Steve hedged.

“I wasn’t asleep.” Bucky glanced up at him. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Steve hesitated, taking a sip of tea to give himself time to consider. On one hand, Bucky was his employer, and spilling his guts to him was unprofessional. On the other hand, he didn’t consider Bucky just an employer. Not quite a friend, but something on the way there. Finally, he decided on a half-truth.

“I dreamed about sand.”

Bucky seemed to get it. He nodded, but there was something in the way his lips curled that told Steve he knew he hadn’t told him everything.

They sat in silence for a while, drinking their tea. It was peaceful, comfortable, and slowly Steve relaxed. He let all the tension of the past few hours drain from his muscles one by one, staring into his mug to keep his eyes off Bucky. The other man’s state of undress was becoming more distracting with each minute that passed, though Bucky hardly seemed aware of it.

The quiet was broken by the shrill ringing of a phone. Bucky groaned and got up to grab the landline from its cradle on the counter next to the microwave.

“Hello?” After a beat of silence, Bucky’s entire body tensed, his face going completely blank.

“Yes… yeah… I know that… it’s the middle of the night… no… it’s not like I can just-… yeah, fine… I said yes… yeah…”

He ended the call, and stood staring at nothing for several long seconds before Steve couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Buck? Everything okay?”

Bucky jumped a little, twisting around to face Steve. “You have tomorrow night off.”

Steve blinked in surprise. “No, I don’t, I’m not scheduled for time off until next week.”

“Pierce fixed it. As reward for a job well done.” Bucky’s face was still empty, his eyes not quite meeting Steve’s.

“Now? With the threat of gang retaliation in the air? I’d rather not, thank you.”

“It’s not your choice. Go home, Steve. Hang out with your friends.”

“Bucky, that’s not a good- “

“Stop fucking arguing!” Bucky slammed his fist against the counter, then flinched, looking more shocked at his little outburst than Steve was.

“Bucky,” Steve started, but Bucky held up a hand.

“Just stop, okay? In fact, take the whole day tomorrow. I’ll see you Thursday.” With that, Bucky turned and walked away.

Confusion did not adequately describe what Steve felt as he got into bed a few minutes later. Why did Pierce decide to give him time off now? And why did Bucky refuse to go against the decision? It didn’t make sense to Steve, and he resolved to talk to Bucky about it the next morning. Except when Steve woke up, the house was empty and Bucky’s car was gone. He tried Bucky’s cell, but got his voicemail. Finally, he resorted to sending him a text.

 

**Steve: I’ll take the day off, but if you need me, for anything, call me immediately.**

 

He got on his bike, and made his way to the VA where Sam worked. He stopped for coffee and Sam greeted him with a smile and declarations of love for the caffeine. They spent half an hour talking about Sam’s job and avoiding talking about Steve’s, then Steve went home. He watched TV, did Sam’s dishes, dusted his room and vacuumed the whole apartment. He was cooking when Sam came home.

“You’re making shepherd’s pie,” Sam noted the moment he stepped into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Steve said, a little too lightly.

“You only make shepherd’s pie when something’s wrong,” Sam retorted, “so talk.”

Steve sighed, taking his time making little patterns on the mashed potatoes, before putting the dish in the oven. “I think there’s something… not quite right between James and the band’s manager.”

Sam listened patiently as Steve recounted the event of the previous night, nodding and frowning occasionally, but staying silent until Steve was done.

“I don’t know, man,” he started as Steve got the pie out of the oven, “that whole dynamic is a lot different than anything you’ve worked with before. Maybe it all just adds up to music industry quirks.”

Steve sighed again, dishing up generous servings of pie which they took to the couch to eat.

“Maybe I’m running on too little information, here,” Steve mused as he lifted a forkful of beef and potato to his mouth.

“Or maybe you’re running on too much imagination,” Sam countered.

They let the discussion drop in favor of watching Bad Boys, but the suspicion nagged at Steve for the rest of the mostly sleepless night.

 

Steve was in a bad mood the next morning, pushing his Harley to unsafe speeds to get through morning traffic before Bucky left for the studio without him again. He turned his bike recklessly around the corner into Bucky’s street, then skidded to a halt half a block from the brownstone when Pierce exited the front door. Steve stayed at a distance, watching the other man, who had a small bag – like an overnight case – in one hand, get into a luxury German sedan. Suddenly, a vastly different possibility occurred to him. All this time, he’d thought Bucky was rebelling against Pierce’s control, had begun to wonder if Pierce was using unsavory means to exert that control. Now, though, Steve realized he’d never considered the rather obvious alternative – Bucky and Pierce were having an affair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I got a Tumblr thing (it's brand new and stupid) if you wanna yell at me about slow updates or stuff - [yollie183](http://yollie183.tumblr.com/) (disclaimer - I don't actually know how to use Tumblr really, so sorry bout that)


	23. I'll Split My Head In Two And See You Twice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Uplift by Pantera.
> 
> Holy shit, America. I'm still reeling from the election results and I don't even live in the same hemisphere. I'm sending thoughts of hope and solidarity to all LGBT, disabled, female, Muslim and person of color Americans reading this. I know a little of what it's like to be a minority in a country where the majority hates your guts for something you have no control over, and I'd like to let every single person (American or otherwise) know that you are strong enough, that you are loved and that there will always be hope, even in the darkest of times. I love all of you.
> 
> Also, I want to say that I adore and appreciate every person who has left me a supportive comment on this fic (and apologies to all the ones I had to delete with the fake chapter, I read and saved each one). You can't know how much each letter of those messages meant to me, thank you, thank you, thank you.

_Do you Believe? Do you Fade like a Dream?_

_Let me hear you breathe_

_Let me watch as you sleep_

_The Sparrow's Eyes... Promises shift into judgments_

_I cannot deny that you were designed for my punishments_

_The Blood and The Body - Control the cut so it's seamless_

_Show me your Heart - Show me the way to complete this_

_Tethered to a scene I_

_Treasure can you help me?_

_I sever_

_God it's perfect,_

_it's never really perfect_

_Now... I can finally be myself_

_‘Cause I don't want to be myself_

_Free my severed heart – give me you (I want it)_

_I don't want to be myself_

_I cannot maintain a semblance of normal anymore_

_I'd rather feel pain than try to fit in with you anymore_

_I'll throw it all away, like everybody else_

_I can finally be myself_

_‘Cause I don't want to be myself_

_Free my severed heart – give me you (I want it)_

_I don't want to be myself_

_\- Gehenna, Slipknot_

_~_

 

Steve took a long moment to gather himself, halfway up Bucky’s front steps. He pushed down on the sour jealousy clawing up his throat, refusing to let it overcome him. Bucky wasn’t his boyfriend, was hardly even his friend. So what if he was sleeping with Pierce? He wouldn’t be the first musician to have a relationship with their manager. And Steve knew he had no right to say anything about it, it was not his place. He pulled in a deep breath before climbing the last step and turned the key Bucky had given him in the lock. The house was quiet, dark, and Steve lingered for a second in the hall, senses on high alert. Something was off.

He moved cautiously forward and froze as he looked into the living room.

Bucky was sitting on the couch, shirtless, leaning forward with his right arm stretched out, a piece of leather tied tightly around his bicep, a needle inserted carefully in the crook of his elbow, left hand deftly depressing the plunger to inject what looked like 10ccs of clear liquid into his vein.

Bucky looked up at Steve, his face, his eyes, utterly blank. Steve shivered, cold fear running its slimy fingers down his spine.

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky said, the words flat and emotionless.

“Goddamnit, Buck,” he whispered, and took a step forward, just as Bucky pulled the needle from his arm and let it drop to the carpet. Steve watched in horrified fascination as Bucky tugged the strap off his arm and leaned back, closing his eyes, a soft moan falling from his lips.

Steve picked up the syringe, careful to avoid the sharp point and put it on the coffee table next to the spoon, cotton and opened alcohol swab arranged in a neat line.

He stood, indecisive, for a moment, before Bucky’s eyes opened.

“You’re angry,” he observed.

“You’re damn right I’m angry,” Steve snapped. He was standing over Bucky, glaring down at him, his anger and jealousy over Pierce pulled to the forefront by his fury with Bucky getting high. “How the fuck can I not be?!”

Bucky leaned forward, looking up at Steve. “You have no right.”

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit. I refuse to just shut up and do nothing while you slowly destroy yourself like this.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” Bucky said quietly, still looking up at Steve, his blue eyes intense.

“Is that so? I know you’re smart, and talented, and a good person. I know your band respects you and Wade and Ellie love you. That’s more than enough.”

Bucky shook his head, not breaking eye contact. “You’re just listing your own heavily biased opinions.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Steve hissed and ran a hand through his hair. “You just have crippling self-esteem issues.”

Bucky let out a bark of laughter. “There you go, that’s more like it.”

Steve’s curled his fists at his sides. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Sure you did, Stevie. And I’m not an idiot, you know, I see the way you look at me sometimes. You want to see all these positive things in me, because you want to fuck me. But it’s an illusion, there’s nothing there. Sorry.”

“That’s not true,” Steve breathed, his heartrate kicking up.

“Which part, exactly?”

“All of it.”

“So you don’t want to fuck me?” Bucky leaned forward a little more, slowly moving his gaze down Steve’s torso to linger on his fly, before looking back up at his face.

“Not if I have to get in line behind Pierce,” Steve spat, with more venom than he’d intended, and Bucky jerked back like he’d been slapped.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I saw him leave,” Steve stated. “You should have told me you were having an affair.”

“An affair?” Another bark of mirthless laughter from Bucky. “Imagine that.”

“What do you call it then?”

“Gee, I dunno. How ‘bout: as long as he gets to fuck me, I have career. Not sure if there’s a nice euphemism for that.”

Steve froze, his retort vanishing from his lips. “You’re sleeping with him for a record deal?”

“There’s not much sleeping, to be honest.”

“Bucky,” Steve snapped, “what exactly is going on?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “You want all the sordid details?”

“I want the truth.”

“Fine. If I don’t let Pierce fuck me, he rips up Siberia’s record contract. And I can’t let that happen.”

“I need to call this in,” Steve said, looking away from Bucky to get his phone out of his pocket, nearly jumping a mile as Bucky’s hand closed over his forearm.

“No,” Bucky said, suddenly afraid. “Steve, you can’t.”

“Buck, if you’re telling the truth, what Pierce is doing is sexual harassment, coercion.”

“I don’t lie,” Bucky said quietly, “I told you that before.”

“Then let me call it – “

“No!” Bucky was suddenly on his feet, chest inches from Steve’s, his breath hot against Steve’s face. “Please, Steve. If this gets out, it’s game over for Siberia. No other label will sign us; no other agents or managers will touch us. And think of Scott’s daughter, of Ellie. Not to mention their livelihoods. Brock spends almost every penny on the assisted living facility where his mom is. Rollins has a sister with three kids to support. They need Siberia, this isn’t the mainstream where we earn millions for every single we release. Most bands barely make enough to get by without a day job.”

Steve hesitated. He knew turning in Pierce was the right thing to do, but Bucky’s eyes, pleading and desperate, were breaking down his will faster than he could muster it.

“Bucky, this isn’t right,” Steve tried to reason.

“I don’t care,” he said, with conviction. “This is a price I’ve been paying for a very long time.”

“And what about the other bands Pierce works with?”

“It’s just me,” Bucky said, “there’s no one else. I wouldn’t let him do it to anyone else.”

“But it’s okay that he’s doing it to you?”

Bucky shrugged. “I can handle it.”

“With heroin.”

Bucky cracked a crooked little smile. “It wouldn’t be rock ‘n roll without the sex and the drugs.”

“That’s not funny, Buck.”

“It’s a little funny,” Bucky said, his hand gripping Steve’s arm a little tighter. “Please, Steve, let me handle this, okay?”

Steve let out a sigh. “I don’t like this.”

“I know.”

“I could lose my job for keeping quiet about this.”

“If you do I’ll make Pierce hires you to be my bodyguard full time.”

“That’s actually kinda sweet of you.”

Bucky smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s all the sugar I eat.”

Steve couldn’t keep a grin off his face. “Damnit, Buck.”

They were still standing too close together, Steve’s arm still in Bucky’s grip, and Steve’s smile faded as he realized he could feel the heat rolling off Bucky’s naked torso.

“See,” Bucky said quietly, “you do want to fuck me.”

Steve’s breath caught in his throat and he shook his head. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Bucky let go of Steve, and took a step back. “We need to be at the studio in twenty minutes.”

He ducked past Steve and disappeared up the stairs. For a second, Steve imagined that he’d hurt Bucky’s feelings with his denial.

But it was mostly true. He didn’t want to fuck Bucky, he wanted to make love to him. He was attracted to Bucky, but it went far deeper than just superficial physical desire. Whatever Bucky had thought he saw; he hadn’t been seeing things clearly at all.

Bucky came back downstairs several minutes later wearing dark jeans and a white t-shirt, his hair pulled up in a bun, and Steve was convinced he was doing it on purpose. His jeans clung like a second skin and Steve was a little surprised that the shirt hadn’t torn with the way it stretched over his chest and biceps. Steve cursed inwardly and followed Bucky into the hall.

“Hey, Steve,” Buck started, leaning one shoulder against the wall, his legs crossed at the ankle, “we should take your bike.”

“Should we?” Steve raised an eyebrow, playing oblivious to Bucky’s little game.

“Yeah. Come on, I’ve never been on a Harley before.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Fine, let’s go.”

Bucky grinned, and stalked outside, coming to a stop next to Steve’s bike to run his fingers over the blue paint, flecked with metallic red flakes. “Pretty,” he stated, looking up at Steve from under his lashes.

For a precarious second, Steve nearly replied with a flirtatious ‘yes, you are’, but luckily spared himself the embarrassment of the cheesy line, instead lifting up the seat to pull out the spare helmet he kept there.

Bucky tugged the elastic band out of his hair before pulling the helmet on. He turned to Steve, a coy smile on his lips. “Can you do the straps?”

Steve rolled his eyes again before clicking the buckle closed under Bucky’s chin. He tucked his pinkies into the straps to tug Bucky’s face closer to his.

“Drop the act, Buck. I’m not going to succumb to your little seduction technique.”

Bucky blinked, his lips parting in surprise. “How do you know it’s an act?”

“Because you only do this when you’re insecure about something.”

Bucky looked down, then back up, and his expression became genuine. A little unsure, a little unhappy. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, Buck.” Steve told him.

“Okay,” Bucky said softly.

“Okay.” Steve let go of Bucky’s helmet straps and swung a leg over his bike, pulling on his own helmet. He felt Bucky sit down behind him, then those arms were winding around his waist, and Steve closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation, before starting the bike and pulling out into the road. It took all Steve’s concentration to focus on the traffic with Bucky’s arms around him, his chest against Steve’s back, his thighs gripping Steve’s like a vice. They made it to the studio in one piece, no thanks to Bucky’s hot breath on the back of Steve’s neck all the way there. Once inside the studio, Steve took his usual seat in the corner, leaning his head back and letting his thoughts focus fully on Alexander Pierce for the first time.

Pierce forcing Bucky to have sex with him to keep his record deal sounded exactly like rape to Steve, but he knew that what Bucky had said was true. Scandal like that would kill Siberia’s career in one fell swoop. If Bucky were female it might have been easier. Female victims getting the blame for being raped was bad enough. For male victims it was a thousand times worse. So much stigma was attached to male sexuality – from the old ‘men can’t be raped’ nonsense, all the way to ‘what man wouldn’t want sex?’. It was even more complicated when the man in question isn’t straight. So many conservatives still believed homo- and bisexuality was already a perversion, and that any sex between men had to be consensual in some perverse sense.

Steve knew that the media – especially the more conservative outlets – would have a field day with a story like that. He could see the headlines already: _Rock Band Turns Into Sex Cult – Influencing Our Children?_

But, no matter how convincing Bucky’s argument, what Pierce was doing was still horrible and downright _wrong._

Steve knew the simplest course of action – without going against Bucky’s wishes – was to just stay at Bucky’s side for as long as it was possible. He would forfeit his off days, refuse to leave Bucky alone, even if the other man hated him for it. Steve would stick with him until he could figure out some way to bring Pierce to justice.

He opened his eyes to look toward where the band were and realized Bucky was staring at him, his blue eyes clouded, one hand lightly picking a subdued tune on the strings of the guitar cradled in his lap. Steve tried to burn the image in his mind so he could sketch it later, before looking away again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light." - JK Rowling.
> 
> There is light in each of us that will never be snuffed out by their hate - shine bright friends. 
> 
>  
> 
> The last side chapter can be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8444758)   
> It's good and has lots of friendship and caring.


	24. I Do Anything That I Want, And I Get Everything That I Ask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Uplift by Pantera.
> 
> I started watching Westworld recently, and Tessa Thompson just jumped out at me. I can really see her and Seb Stan playing a couple. 
> 
> I have no idea if I'll be able to update during December (I work in retail, you gotta cut me some slack, please).

_I can't decide if you're wearing me out or wearing me well_

_I just feel like I'm condemned to wear someone else's hell_

_We've only reached the third day of our seven-day binge_

_I can already see your name disintegrating from my lips_

_I've got bullets, in the booth_

_Rather be your victim, than be with you_

_I got bullets, in the Boothe_

_Rather be your victim, than be with you_

_I'd rather be your victim, than to be with you_

_Rather be your victim, than be with you_

_\- Third Day of a Seven Day Binge, Marilyn Manson_

_~_

_I see you in the dark_

_I see you all the way_

_I see you in the light_

_I see you plain as day_

_I wanna touch your face_

_I wanna touch your soul_

_I wanna wear your face_

_I wanna burn your soul_

_Watching - Bring me to my knees_

_waiting - I am your disease_

_Lover - set my symptom free_

_Covered - You can't love me_

_\- The Virus of Life, Slipknot_

_~_

_I bear witness_

_To this place, this prayer, so long forgotten_

_So pure_

_So rare_

_To witness such an earthly goddess_

_That I'd sell_

_My soul_

_My self-esteem a dollar at a time_

_For one chance_

_One kiss_

_One taste of you my black Madonna_

_I'd sell_

_My soul_

_My self-esteem a dollar at a time_

_\- Magdalena, A Perfect Circle_

~

 

The days passed in a routine that was rapidly becoming familiar to Steve. Having coffee with Bucky, driving to the studio, reading while the band worked, driving home, having dinner in front of the television. It was all comfortable and pleasant and Steve learned to live with the sour aftertaste that the knowledge about Alexander Pierce had left on his tongue. Bucky had asked about his next off day and glanced up sharply from his coffee mug when Steve told him he was forfeiting the free time.

 

“Why?” Bucky asked, brows furrowing above his eyes.

“You’re the smart one,” Steve said, running his fingertips along the rim of his House Lannister mug, “you know why.”

“Pierce?” Bucky asked, his eyes scanning Steve’s face, their intensity burning over his skin.

Steve gave a short little nod, half expecting Bucky to laugh or call him an idiot.

Instead, Bucky’s eyes clouded, his expression torn between confusion and hurt. Before Steve could say anything further, Bucky left the kitchen to go get dressed for the day, avoiding Steve’s eyes until they reached the studio.

 

Eventually the band finished the song for the movie soundtrack. The movie studio arranged for the band to fly to Georgia to shoot the music video there, on set, to get the feel of the movie just right. Bucky had chafed at the bit when he realized the band had almost no control over the creative process for the video, but had acquiesced after the director of the music video – who was also a second AD on the movie – sent him the full storyline.

 

Steve had been a more than a little surprised when Bucky had asked him if he was packed the night before they were to leave. He’d forgotten about the video in all the drama of the break-in and Pierce.

He’d gone upstairs to pack, Bucky trailing behind him to sit on his bed and give a little running commentary on which clothes he ought to bring.

“What do you have against my clothes?” Steve asked, exasperated as Bucky vetoed everything except black band t-shirts.

“Nothing,” Bucky said, his smile a little impish. “It’s just our video aesthetic.”

“Right,” Steve said, nodding along. It had entirely escaped him that there had to be more Siberia music videos out there. He’d listened to their music, but never bothered to explore any deeper.

Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve, obviously following his train of thought.

“I’m not gonna be in the video,” Steve reminded him.

“The director is gonna take one look at you and put you in as an extra.”

“I’ll hide in a closet somewhere.”

“You’re no fun.”

Steve hadn’t heard the recurring little barb from Bucky in so long it almost stung to realize how much he’d missed it.

 

As soon as they reached the film set, Steve and Sharon were shown to a row of chairs while the band were hurried into a couple of trailers for hair and make-up. Before taking a seat, Steve did a perimeter check, more to avoid one of the young extras making eyes at Sharon than any real safety concerns. The film set had more than enough security to make Steve’s presence redundant.

While waiting for the band to emerge, a young woman wearing a black leather catsuit walked up to them, smiling brightly.

“Ms. Thompson,” Sharon said, getting to her feet, “it’s great to meet you.”

“Tessa, please,” the woman said, shaking hands with Sharon and Steve, who’d also gotten to his feet.

“I’m Sharon, the band’s assistant,” Sharon introduced, “and this is Steve Rogers, James’ bodyguard.”

The actress – who was playing one of the films leads – stayed to chat for a few minutes before being called into make-up herself. She would feature in the music video, Steve learned from Sharon as she checked something on her tablet.

Finally, the door of the first trailer opened and a man jumped down the steps. He stalked toward where Steve and Sharon were waiting and Steve’s mouth went dry when he realized the man, moving with a predatory grace, was Bucky. Bucky wearing black boots, black cargo pants, a black t-shirt under a very real looking black tac vest, his tattooed left hand curled loosely around the handle of a knife, his hair falling in messy curtains around his face. Oh god, Steve swallowed heavily, his face. His eyes were lined in kohl, making the blue darker and even more intensely beautiful than usual. But it was the mask that caught – and held – Steve’s attention. Covering his face from the bridge of his nose down to his throat, the mask was made from a woven black metal, shaped to perfectly fit the contours of Bucky’s cheekbones and jaw, it gave him a dangerous, feral air that sent blood rushing from Steve’s head downwards. The mask was a muzzle, made to keep a dangerous creature silent and obedient, and Bucky was nothing if not dangerous.

His eyes fell on Steve, darkening as they took in whatever expression they saw there. His lithe movements reminded Steve of a tiger he’d seen once in a game reserve while on leave during his second tour. And if Bucky was the tiger, Steve was his prey, caught helpless and terrified in his gaze.

He stood immobile as Bucky strode wordlessly past him, trying to get his thoughts and heartbeat back under some semblance of control. It was Wade who finally broke him from his daze, none too gently punching Steve’s shoulder to get his attention.

“Dude, we’re filming over there,” Wade motioned with one hand, and Steve realized he was wearing a red and black leather suit and a matching mask.

“Oh. Right. Yeah. Okay.”

Wade laughed, shaking his head as Steve fell into step beside him. “Don’t worry, Cap, Bucky in the full outfit has that effect on many a mere mortal.”

“The full outfit?” Steve questioned, hoping to God that he wasn’t blushing, though the look on Wade’s face convinced him the hope was in vain.

“Yeah,” Wade responded. “The music video outfit.”

For the second time in as many days, Steve regretted not watching Siberia’s videos earlier. “You have specific outfits for videos?”

“Yeah. Well, see, right when we started out, - for obvious reasons -  I wanted the band to wear masks all the time, kinda like Slipknot. But Brock and Scott didn’t want to, so as a compromise, it’s become tradition to wear them for music videos.”

“Obvious reasons?” Steve questioned, realized his mistake a split second too late when Wade turned his head, his discomfort evident despite the mask and suit.

“Not a fan of showing off my ugly mug,” Wade said, the levity in his tone at odds with the tension in his shoulders and his clenched fists.

“You’re not ugly, Wade,” Steve said, but Wade just gave a little grunt and sped up his steps as they neared the band, Sharon, the director and Tessa.

The rest of the band were wearing masks too – Scott’s was a silver helmet, the compound eyepieces and little antennas giving it an insect-like quality. Rumlow’s was molded and black, with crossbones painted on in white. Rollins’ mask was a cast of his face, with no eyelids or lips, much creepier than any of the rest.

The set seemed to be an interrogation room, brightly lit with futuristic looking screens lining one wall, with little markers to show where CGI will be used to insert the images on them. In the center of the floor was a chrome chair with a black leather seat and black leather straps around the armrests.

Steve stayed on the sidelines with Sharon, while the director showed Tessa where to stand and showed Bucky where she would push him backward into the chair. Bucky quietly asked something, his eyes taking on that strange blank look as the director nodded and tugged at one of the arm straps on the chair. Somewhere the new Siberia song started playing and Tessa and Bucky let the director guide them through their moves. The scene was simple enough, Bucky strapped into the chair,

while Tessa, in character as the futuristic intelligence operative, interrogated him, interspersed with the band members appearing over Bucky’s shoulders in a devil-and-angel manner.

They ran through the sequence several times with different camera angles, the director especially fond of a take where Tessa grabbed Bucky’s hair to force his head back. It looked amazing, Steve had to concede. Even with most of Bucky’s face obscured, he was able to emote with just his eyes, portraying defiance and desire in a way that had Steve’s already frayed nerves sparking with _want._

The second sequence had the band performing while Tessa lounged in the interrogation chair. It took a while to set up the band’s equipment, and Steve watched while Bucky removed his mask to drink the coffee an assistant handed him while he laughed at something Tessa was saying. They were talking animatedly, and from the snatches Steve could hear, Bucky was regaling her with tour stories.

They looked ridiculously good together, Steve had to concede, even though it left a bitter taste on his tongue. He made half-formed plans for disappearing from their hotel room if Bucky invited her to spend the night.

His phone vibrating in his pocket distracted him and he pulled it out, smiling as he read Sam’s name on the caller ID.

“Hey, man,” Steve answered, walking backwards a few paces for privacy while still keeping an eye on Bucky.

“ _Hey, is this a bad time?_ ” Sam asked.

“No, it’s fine. Is everything okay?”

“ _Except for the fact that you stood me up for the game, everything’s peachy._ ”

“Oh, shit,” Steve breathed, “I forgot. I’m so sorry, Sam, I’m working and it just slipped my mind. I’m an asshole.”

“ _Just a little bit. Why are you working? It’s supposed to be your off weekend._ ”

“Something came up,” Steve hedged. “I couldn’t take off.”

“ _You wanna talk about it?_ ”

“I can’t, but thanks, Sam. I owe you.”

 _“You’re damn right. I should make you do the dishes for the next decade. And buy me jewelry._ ”

Steve gave a little snort of laughter that made Bucky’s gaze fly to him. Steve looked away, but couldn’t stop himself smiling.

“Sure thing, babycakes,” he told Sam, “anything for you.”

“ _You’re the worst,_ ” Sam grumbled.

“I love you too, puddin’,” Steve told him with a grin before ending the call.

By instinct, Steve looked in Bucky’s direction again and realized the other man had put the mask back on, a scowl darkening his eyes above the black metal.

The crew had finished the setup and Steve watched the band pretend to perform the song over and over again. The band all moved, only Bucky stayed unnaturally still, the microphone dangling from his tattooed hand the way the knife had done earlier.

It was a disturbing image, hearing Bucky’s voice screaming from the speakers even though he was motionless and muzzled.

 

After the shoot, back at their hotel, Bucky wordlessly grabbed a bottle of bourbon and locked himself in his bedroom. The silence stretched between them all the way back to New York, in the car back to Bucky’s house and through his front door.

Steve held out until he was halfway up the stairs on Bucky’s heels, before breaking the silence.

“Bucky,” he started, and nearly collided with the other man as he came to a dead stop in front of Steve, spinning on his heel so fast Steve had to press his palm flat against the wall to keep his footing one stair below Bucky, who still had eyeliner from the day before smudged around his sad, baleful eyes.

Steve started to speak but was cut off as Bucky grabbed his face with strong, cool hands and pressed his lips against Steve’s. The kiss was hard and angry and Bucky stepped forward, pressing Steve back against the wall as his tongue pressed past Steve’s lips. Steve raised one hand to grip the back of Bucky’s neck, breathing him in like a dying man desperate for air. Then Bucky staggered back, his lips red and wet, his eyes wide. Terrified.

“Get out,” Bucky breathed, one hand coming up to scrub at his lips as though he wanted the taste of Steve’s mouth gone. “Get the fuck out of my house, right now.”


	25. You Keep This Love, Thing, Love, Child, Love, Toy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from This Love by Pantera. 
> 
> Sorry for deleting all the lovely comments along with the [Serenity of Suffering](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8642530) non-chapter, I read each one, promise.

 

_Flesh wound, flesh wound_

_With medication it will fade_

_Should I assume_

_That someone hears me when I pray?_

_Love, full of hate_

_Don't you love how I break?_

_Don't let them throw me away_

_Keep me and I'll be okay_

_Skipping a beat but it plays_

_Don't let them throw me away_

_Don't let them throw me away_

_Screwed up, used up_

_Crumpled, lying on the floor_

_Fucked up, shut up_

_All you did back then was score_

_I'm feeling weak_

_Missing parts, incomplete_

_Hold me up into the light_

_Fix the cracks and fix them right_

_Keep the pieces in the drawer_

_Keep them there forever more_

_May come in useful some day_

_Recycle this shit in some way_

_And all that I have to say_

_Don't let them throw me away_

_\- Throw Me Away, Korn_

 

~

 

Steve turned on his heel, blindly striding down the stairs and out the front door, not stopping until he had one leg thrown over his Harley. He paused and sat down heavily, lowering his face into his hands. For one second he let himself dwell on the kiss. On how right Bucky’s cool hands and warm lips had felt against his skin. On how his blood had seemed to ignite in his veins.

Steve shook his head, forcing himself to shove down the memory and focus on the present. Bucky’s voice, telling him to get out, echoed icily in his head, and he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Nick,” Steve started as his boss answered the call, “Mr Barnes and I had an altercation. I think you need to prep someone to replace me.”

“ _An altercation?_ ”

“Yes,” Steve said, unwilling to give details. “I’m gonna pack up now, how long until you can get someone here?”

“ _One hour,_ ” Nick said, his voice not betraying if he was annoyed at the upheaval.

“Alright,” Steve replied, looking up at Bucky’s brownstone as he ended the call. He swallowed down the lump in his throat and got off his bike.

He made his way back inside the house, half expecting Bucky to still be standing on the stairs, glaring at him, but the way was clear. He slowly climbed up, trying to make his steps as soundless as Bucky’s always were. Bucky’s bedroom door was ajar, and Steve took a deep breath. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t want to face Bucky. Didn’t want a repeat of the last words the man had spat at him.

 _Weak,_ his brain supplied, _coward._

Steve knocked lightly on the door, then stepped into the doorway without waiting for an answer.

It was the first time Steve had ever been in Bucky’s room. It was done in shades of black and dark blue, more of Darcy’s art on the walls. Bucky was sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, the black sheets and wrought-iron bedframe making his skin look sallow and pale. A wooden box sat next to him, its lid askew. He was holding a filled syringe loosely in his fingers.

“I called Shield. My replacement will be here in an hour,” Steve said quietly, doing his best to keep his voice level and professional.

Bucky didn’t look up. He flicked his wrist and threw the syringe at the wall, hard enough for the needle to snap off.

Steve started to pull back, but Bucky’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“When I was almost fifteen, I ran away from home.” Bucky got to his feet, still not looking at Steve and opened the door to the walk-in closet. Steve heard him rummage around, but didn’t move to see what he was doing. Bucky’s voice drifted, slightly muffled, from inside. “I didn’t really think about the practical aspects of living on the streets. I had about twelve dollars in my pocket, which ran out as quickly as you’d expect.”

Bucky came back out of the closet, carrying a thick brown folder. “About a week in, just after sunset, I was walking down the street, looking for somewhere to sleep, when this guy stopped his car next to me. He leaned out, gave me this smile, and offered me ten bucks and a bottle of whiskey for a blowjob. I didn’t even think twice. Easy money, I figured. About a month later, these two Russian guys pick me up, offer me vodka before we got started. I remember thinking, _maybe they know it’s my birthday._ So I drink it, and five minutes later, things go black.”

Bucky held out the folder to Steve, not meeting his eyes. Steve took it, hesitantly.

“It’s…” Bucky scratched at his arm. “I don’t want a different bodyguard.”

“Bucky,” Steve said, “you told me to go, so I’m going.”

“Please don’t,” Bucky breathed. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Damnit, Bucky!” Steve snapped, and Bucky flinched. “How many times is this? I’m sick of trying to keep up with what you want, when you keep changing your mind at the drop of a hat.”

Bucky bit his lip, looking at Steve for the first time. “I don’t want a different bodyguard.”

Steve ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the short strands. “And if something else happens tomorrow, or the day after? Are we going to do this _again_?”

“I don’t want a different bodyguard,” Bucky repeated, almost angrily. “Call Shield, then read the file. It’s not pretty, though.”

Bucky turned back to the bed, letting his fingers skim over the lid of the box. Steve had a pretty good idea what was inside it, so he stayed put as he pulled out his phone to call Nick. This time his boss let his annoyance show clearly as Steve explained that he’ll be staying with Bucky, but underneath the muttered curses, Steve could hear the concern in Nick’s voice, too.

Bucky sat back down on his bed, closing the box and shoving it under the bed.

Steve looked down at the folder in his hands. He didn’t want to think about Bucky’s story, about the matter-of-fact way he’d told it. His thoughts skirted painfully around the edges of the terrible knowledge.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Bucky pick up a battered paperback book from his bedside table and open it somewhere in the middle.

Steve moved to the end of Bucky’s bed and sat down on the edge, his back to Bucky. He opened the folder. Everything seemed to be in Cyrillic, with English translations. The first page had the most basic information. James Buchanan Barnes, born 1982 in Brooklyn, New York. Brown hair, blue eyes. Small birthmark on his thigh.

The next few pages contained a psychological evaluation. INTJ personality type. Signs of depression. History of drug abuse. History of trauma. Highly intelligent. Acquiescent. It was dated the second of May, 2000. After the psych evaluation, there was another report, this one titled ‘Recruitment details’. Words jumped out at Steve and he had to close his eyes for a second to regain control of himself. Behind him, he heard Bucky turn the page of his book.

_Barnes found working as a prostitute in an establishment with ties to the Bratva. Heroin addiction. Aptitude for languages. Skilled at reading body language and facial expressions. Untrained._

Pages detailing in clinical terms the story Bucky had told him weeks ago, about how he’d been working for the Bratva, about how a SVR agent had recruited him.

Bucky had been fifteen when he was trafficked to Moscow. Had been forced into prostitution and addiction by the Bratva, for three years. He’d been eighteen when the SVR had found him and forced him into a different form of prostitution. Gathering intel on suspected enemies of the Russian Federation by seducing them. The file listed heavily redacted overviews of Bucky’s missions, ending with the one that ended his career for the SVR.

Steve closed the folder and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes were burning, a lump heavy in his throat. He hadn’t cried since his mom had died, not even when he’d lost his unit. But now he forced back tears.

Bucky – beautiful, kind, talented, smart, funny Bucky – had lived through all of that. Years of what amounts to rape, years of being used, only to be back in the same situation with Pierce.

“I told you it’s not pretty,” Bucky’s voice came from behind him, much closer that he expected. He hadn’t even felt the bed shift under Bucky’s weight.

“I had no idea,” Steve said, his voice a little too scratchy. He cleared his throat.

“No one does,” Bucky murmured. “I’ve never even told Wade about it.”

“Why tell me?”

“You deserve to know,” Bucky answered. “I didn’t mean to kiss you, didn’t mean to soil you like that.”

Steve turned, his eyes going wide. Bucky’s face was sad and resigned, inches from his. “Soil me?”

“You’re good. Pure. All I’ve ever been is unclean.”

“Bucky,” Steve started, “you’re not – “

“Don’t,” Bucky cut him off, reaching over the take the folder from Steve’s numb fingers, carefully not touching his skin. “Is pizza okay for dinner?”

The subject change threw Steve, but he nodded anyway. He was grateful that Bucky had been so honest with him, even if every part of Steve ached for Bucky’s pain. “Pizza’s good.”

Bucky got to his feet and stooped to pick up the syringe he’d thrown against the wall. He went into the bathroom, leaving the door open so Steve could see him empty the heroin into the sink and run the cold water until it all washed away.

 

They ate pizza while watching Pacific Rim. It was nice, almost normal, and if Steve kept his attention focused on monsters and robots duking it out and on how Bucky pulled all the pepperoni off his slice and stuffed it in his mouth before eating the rest, he could almost forget about what Bucky had shared with him. Almost. _He’d been just a kid,_ Steve thought, feeling a little sick. Just a kid, accepting money from strangers for sex. Just a kid, addicted to heroin. Just a kid, trafficked, _enslaved_.

Hallway through the movie, Steve set his half-eaten pizza aside, unable to take another bite with the way his stomach was churning.

He wanted to turn to Bucky, pull him into a hug, kiss his forehead, tell him that he was a lot of things, but _unclean_ wasn’t one of them. Instead he folded his arms, pressing his hands into his armpits to hide the way they trembled. Bucky gave him a sidelong glance, before returning his attention the movie. It was a long evening, and Steve claimed exhaustion before the credits even started rolling, escaping to his room.

He set a pair of boxers and a clean t-shirt on the bed, before shutting himself in the bathroom to take a shower. Once under the warm fall of water, Steve bit into his fist to muffle a sob. He sank down to his knees and let the tears come.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I'll try to make the next one a little fluffier.


	26. You Keep This Love, Fist, Love, Scar, Love, Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from This Love by Pantera.
> 
> Two chapters in one day?! It's a Christmas miracle!  
> This one's short, but it's fluffy, so it balances out.
> 
> Just a side-note. The song I use, Carry Me, holds a lot of really painful memories for me, and I haven't listened to it in years. Using it now is shockingly cathartic. So, yeah, anyway...

_I've been looking for something sacred_

_Running away from the light._

_Gotta burn all the bridges in my head_

_That lead me away from my life._

_I question my own existence,_

_Question the meaning of life._

_Why don't you carry me?_

_Why don't you carry me?_

_I can't move on_

_I can't live on_

_Carry me_

_Why don't you carry me?_

_I can't save me_

_I am crazy_

_Without you..._

_It takes horns to hold up my halo_

_And strength to get through the fight_

_Now I'm laying my cards on the table_

_Praying everything will be alright_

_I question my own existence_

_Question the meaning of life._

_The hardest ones to love_

_Are the ones that need it most_

_\- Carry Me, Papa Roach_

~

 

The next day, Bucky refused to talk about the what he’d revealed to Steve, shutting down and changing the subject when Steve tried to bring it up. Bucky went back to complaining about Steve’s wardrobe and making him watch teen movies from the nineties, the only sign that anything had changed the way Bucky avoided physical contact at all times. He’d never been overly touchy-feely, but Steve missed the occasional nudge to the shoulder and pat on the back. The days passed in boredom in the studio and trying to figure out why Bucky stopped singing in the shower. The next Thursday, Bucky leveled Steve with a hesitant look.

“Are you taking this weekend off, like you’re supposed to?”

“No,” Steve said evenly. “Why?”

“There’s a thing this Saturday,” Bucky said, vaguely gesturing with one hand.

“What thing?” Steve asked, a little apprehensively.

“The midnight release party for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child,” Bucky said with a grin.

 

Which was how Steve found himself at a bookstore at eleven PM on a Saturday night, wearing a red shirt with a varsity-like slogan proclaiming him to be a keeper for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, while Bucky stood next to him, bouncing in excitement like a six-year old. Steve had to admit that Bucky looked ridiculously sexy in a skin-tight midnight blue shirt with the Ravenclaw house crest on it in bronze and black skinny jeans that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

“I feel like a chaperone at a kid’s birthday party,” Steve grumbled. “A nerdy kid.”

“You’re no fun,” Bucky told him. “And if you keep complaining I’ll draw a lightning bolt on your forehead in permanent marker.”

“Idle threats,” Steve said snootily.

“Complimentary Butterbeer?” A voice to Steve’s right said, and he realized they’d ambled over to the refreshment table.

A kid with green and black hair, wearing a green and pink sweater vest – whose nametag read Alex – held out two paper cups to Steve.

“Yeah, thanks,” Steve gave the kid a little smile as he took the cups and passed one to Bucky.

They stepped away from the table to make room for other people to receive their own Butterbeers.

“Hey, did you ever actually read the Harry Potter book I bought you?”

“Yes, I did,” Steve answered, “in fact I’m about halfway through Deathly Hallows.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I haven’t seen you read them.”

“I bought the e-books,” Steve admitted.

“Eugh,” Bucky’s upper lip curled in disgust. “Look, Kindles are convenient and all, but some things need to be experienced on paper. Come on.”

He led Steve over to the wall-length Harry Potter display and lifted down a boxed set of the entire series, which he dumped in Steve’s free hand.

“I already have the first book,” Steve reminded him.

“You have the proper Philosopher’s Stone; this set has the Americanized Sorcerer’s Stone.” He dumped another boxed set on top of the other one, this one small and labelled ‘The Hogwarts Library’.

“Right,” Steve mumbled and took a sip of his drink. And immediately coughed and pulled a face.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked, taking a sip of his own and smiling in contentment.

“This stuff is all sugar. It’s gross.”

“You have no appreciation for the finer things, Stevie.”

Steve pressed his cup into Bucky’s free hand. “There, you can appreciate it on my behalf.”

Bucky shrugged and grinned, taking alternating sips from both cups as they took a circular route back to the table piled high with Harry Potter inspired snacks.

“Cauldron Cake?” Bucky asked.

“Too much chocolate,” Steve shook his head. “I don’t have a sweet tooth like you.”

“Pumpkin Pasty? Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Bean? Chocolate Frog?”

“Doesn’t the Wizarding World have any savory snacks?”

Bucky frowned, taking the question more seriously than Steve intended. “They mention potato chips, I think. At least have a rock cake.”

Steve held out his hand and Bucky dropped a lumpy cookie into his palm without touching him. Steve bit into it, grateful that these, unlike Hagrid’s, were actually edible.

“Oh my god, you’re James Barnes!” a high-pitched voice said from behind them. Bucky looked up from his handful of jelly beans to smile at the teenage girl wearing a full Hermione cosplay. “I love your music! My brother does, too. He’s gonna regret saying Harry Potter is for kids so much, now.”

“You can tell him I said Harry Potter transcends age,” Bucky told her. “I love the cosplay.”

“Thanks! Uhm… can I maybe… get a picture with you?”

“Of course,” Bucky smiled, then looked at Steve. “Steve, would you…?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, setting down his boxed sets and taking the girls phone to snap the picture.

Steve smiled as the girl left. “I thought that would happen more often,” he wondered aloud.

“Getting recognized? Nah, this side of all the radio drivel, fame is completely relative.” He stuck a jelly bean in his mouth, and immediately gagged, swallowing with some difficulty. “Soap flavor. Ick.”

Finally, midnight arrived and Bucky got two copies of Cursed Child, paying for them and Steve’s boxed sets, despite Steve’s protest that he could do it himself.

“This isn’t a date, I can pay for my own stuff,” Steve said, and immediately regretted it as Bucky’s expression became closed-off.

“I’m aware, Steve,” he snapped, shoving the shopping bags into Steve’s arms, and turning to stride away to the exit. Steve cursed under his breath and hurried to catch up with him outside.

“Bucky, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Bucky mumbled, speeding up.

“Damnit, Buck, slow down.”

Bucky ducked his head and continued walking, turning into a dark side-street.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” Steve huffed out, adjusting the bags he was carrying.

“Away from you.”

Steve stopped dead in his tracks. “Okay, you know what, you’re being a brat. I’m not doing this again. Stop acting like a petulant child.”

Bucky turned on his heel. “A _petulant child_?”

“Yeah. Pierce may find it cute, but I don’t.”

Bucky’s eyes widened in shock and Steve realized he’d hit a nerve.

“It turns him on, you know,” Bucky stated, schooling his voice and expression back into flat, matter-of-factness. “He likes me acting like a bratty kid. He also likes it when I call him ‘sir’ while he fucks- “

“Enough,” Steve cut him off. Bucky’s words just stirred up the anger still simmering beneath Steve’s skin.

“He wanted me to spend the weekend at his place. He was pissed when I told him I was going to be here. He’ll find some excuse to force you to take time off.”

“He can try,” Steve said, the words almost a snarl.

“You take your job much too seriously.”

“This isn’t about my job,” Steve said carelessly. “I’m not letting that bastard lay his hands on you again.”

Bucky’s lips parted, his eyes a little too bright. He walked past Steve, back to the main road. “I’ll call an Uber.”

They made it back to Bucky’s house in silence. Steve went to the living room to set down the books on the couch while Bucky filled the kettle and made tea. Steve perched on a stool and sipped the hot liquid while petting Fred, who’d trotted up the counter.

With his mug empty, Steve stood up and moved toward the stairs.

“Hey, Steve?” Bucky’s voice called him back. “For what it’s worth, thank you.”

Steve gave a crooked smile, and said half-jokingly; “if I try to hug you, are you gonna punch me again?”

Bucky made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, stepping forward and throwing his arms around Steve’s neck. Steve let his own arms wind around Bucky’s waist as the other man buried his face against his neck, breath scorching on Steve’s skin. They stayed like that for a long moment, as Steve breathed in Bucky’s scent, soap and shampoo and something warm that was wholly _Bucky_.

The moment was broken by Fred hooking her claws into Steve’s leg with an angry yowl.

“Ow, fuck!” Steve exclaimed, reluctantly pulling away from Bucky to glare at the cat. “What’d you do that for?”

In reply, Fred walked to her empty food bowl and gave the two men a pointed glare.

They looked at the cat, then at each other, and both burst out laughing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fred's fucking awesome. My own cat, aptly named Lucifer, is evil in many similar ways. 
> 
> Also, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child came out on the 31st of July 2016, just so you're all okay with the timeline of this fic. Steve's under contract to be Bucky's bodyguard until after Ozzfest meets Knotfest 2016, which was in September.


	27. Grow Your Hair And Crawl Inside Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Hellhound by Pantera.
> 
> I know I haven't replied to comments in a while, sorry. I read them all and I love everyone who took the time to leave one, replies are coming soon, promise. 
> 
> How was everyone's Chrismas/other holiday? Mine was okay. There were no screaming matches about religion, so I'll count that as a win. 
> 
> The news about Carrie Fisher really got to me today. She was such a strong and amazing person and she'll be missed by so many. This year has just taken so fucking much and I can't wait for it to just be over already.

_Hello,_

_Is there anybody in there?_

_Just nod if you can hear me._

_Is there anyone at home?_

_Come on now_

_I hear you're feeling down_

_Well, I can ease your pain_

_And get you on your feet again_

_Relax_

_I'll need some information first_

_Just the basic facts_

_Can you show me where it hurts?_

_There is no pain, you are receding_

_A distant ship smoke on the horizon_

_You are only coming through in waves_

_Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying_

_When I was a child I had a fever_

_My hands felt just like two balloons_

_Now I've got that feeling once again_

_I can't explain, you would not understand_

_This is not how I am_

_I have become comfortably numb_

_I have become comfortably numb_

_O.K._

_Just a little pin prick_

_There'll be no more…_

_But you may feel a little sick_

_Can you stand up?_

_I do believe it's working, good_

_That'll keep you going through the show_

_Come on, it's time to go._

_There is no pain you are receding_

_A distant ship smoke on the horizon_

_You are only coming through in waves_

_Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying_

_When I was a child_

_I caught a fleeting glimpse_

_Out of the corner of my eye_

_I turned to look but it was gone_

_I cannot put my finger on it now_

_The child is grown_

_The dream is gone_

_I have become comfortably numb._

_\- Comfortably Numb, Pink Floyd_

~

 

“Who’s this?”

Steve froze in his tracks in the doorway of his bathroom, thanking his lucky stars that he’d put a pair of sweatpants on after his shower instead of just wrapping the towel around his waist as he usually did.

Bucky was sitting on his bed, holding up Steve’s sketchbook, open to a page depicting the likeness of a beautiful dark-haired woman.

“Why are you in my room?” Steve retorted, moving to the closet to get clothes for the day.

“I kinda own the house,” Bucky said flippantly, with a small smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Steve rolled his eyes even though he had his back to Bucky, rummaging for underwear. “So that makes snooping okay?”

“The book was already open.”

“On a blank page.” Because, before his shower, Steve had carefully removed the sketches he’d done of Bucky and stowed them in a folder in his suitcase. All except one, the first one, where’d he’d drawn Bucky on stage in Prague.

“I was curious,” Bucky defended, as Steve returned to the bed with a bundle of clothes in his arms.

“Uh huh,” Steve said with a raised eyebrow.

“So who is she? You draw her over and over.”

Steve sighed, sitting down on the opposite end of the bed from where Bucky was lounging. “Her name was Peggy. She was an exchange student from England in our senior year of high school and we became good friends. After that she joined the RAF. My unit and hers had a couple of missions together during my second tour. She was killed in action about a year later.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quietly. “You loved her?”

“If I were straight,” Steve said with a shrug and a rueful smile that Bucky couldn’t see, “I’d probably have wanted to marry her.”

There was a beat of silence, then Steve heard paper rustling as Bucky paged through the sketchbook again.

“You drew me,” Bucky said, even more quietly.

Steve nodded, looking over his shoulder. “Does it bother you?”

“No,” Bucky said, lightly running the tip of his finger over the edge of the page. “I don’t look like that though.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Steve said, “I drew that back when we were in Russia, I was really out of practice.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Bucky pulled himself to his feet and walked toward the door. “Get dressed, we’re going out.”

“Out where?” Steve called after him. It was Sunday, they didn’t need to go to the studio.

“To a movie, and lunch,” Bucky threw over his shoulder.

 

They watched Suicide Squad, and Bucky grumbled all the way out of the theatre, dumping his empty popcorn container angrily into the nearest trashcan and taking grumpy slurps of his blue slushy in between complaints about the movie.

Steve listened in fascination, his only contribution – “I kinda liked it” – met with a huff and an eye-roll.

They turned into a small, hipster-filled restaurant and snagged a corner table. The burgers were good and talk about movies lasted them through the meal.

Bucky looked a tiny bit impressed when Steve confessed his favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz, though he immediately groaned when Steve followed that up by mentioning the crush he’d had on the Tin Man. Bucky stayed true to his nerdy nature by expounding the virtues of 2001: A Space Odyssey, which lasted them most of the way back home.

It was a peaceful day, and Steve let himself relish it, curling up on the couch next to Bucky with a copy of Seven Deadly Sins by Corey Taylor, a recommendation Bucky had made in preparation for meeting the man himself at Ozzfest Meets Knotfest the following month. Bucky looked up from his own book, something in German with a spaceship on the cover.

“Hey, Steve,” he said slowly, a small crease between his eyebrows.

“Yes, Bucky?” Steve replied when Bucky stayed quiet.

“Design me tattoo.”

“I… what?”

“A tattoo,” Bucky said, turning to face Steve, one leg folded under his body, the movement bring him very close. “A sleeve, for my right arm. I’ve been wanting to do it for ages, I just haven’t been able to find the right artist.”

Steve blinked in surprise. “I’m no artist, Buck.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky said easily. “C’mon, Steve, please?”

“I know almost nothing about tattoo design,” Steve hedged.

“You draw a picture,” Bucky answered, “simple as that.”

“What picture?”

Bucky shrugged. “Something organic, to go with the mechanic elements on my left arm.”

“Something organic?” Steve repeated weakly.

“Yup,” Bucky nodded with a pleased grin and returned his attention to his book.

Steve stared at Bucky, his mind rolling over the word _organic_ and what it meant. Something alive, Steve thought, as alive and vital as Bucky himself was, and without meaning to, Steve could see lines and pictures form behind his eyelids.

The evening was a lazy one, and Bucky put on The Fifth Element after dinner, while Steve tried to continue reading his book and tried to resist the urge to get up and fetch his sketchbook from upstairs. The idea of Bucky wearing Steve’s art under his skin was unnerving and Steve was sure that Bucky would immediately laugh off the idea of actually getting the tattoo once he saw whatever Steve ended up drawing. That trepidation lasted all the way to his bedroom later that night, where with a deep breath, he opened the sketchbook to a blank page and picked up a pencil. _Eyes,_ Steve’s mind whispered, _a beating heart. Blood and bone. Warmth._ Bucky’s warmth, when they’d hugged in his kitchen a week previous. Bucky’s heat, when he’d pressed Steve back against the wall and kissed him. Steve put pencil to paper and let his mind wander on those memories as he drew, quick lines forming across the page.

He didn’t go to sleep until the sun peeked in through the blinds over the window, and groaned into his pillow when Bucky pounded on his door two hours later to call him down to breakfast before they had to go to the studio.

 

Alexander Pierce was waiting for them when they entered the studio, sitting on a stool next to Roland. He was obviously in a foul mood, and Steve wondered if it was due to Bucky denying him for two consecutive weekends. For most of the morning the band were treated to his criticism of their new material and his complaints that the recording process was taking too long, even though their predicted completion date was mid-October.

Bucky got the worst of it as Pierce sneered at his lyrics, calling them stunted and childish. The color drained from Bucky’s face, but he stayed quiet, staring expressionlessly at the wall, his body going completely still. Steve clenched his fists behind his back to resist the urge to punch Pierce in the face. The rest of the day was spent in tense agitation, the band tiptoeing around both Pierce and Bucky. At some point mid-morning, while Pierce was talking at Bucky in an angry aside, Wade gripped Steve’s shoulder, the touch grounding Steve, who’d been on the point of stepping between them.

“Relax,” Wade said quietly, “read your book. Bucky won’t thank you for fighting battles he can win on his own.”

Steve nodded, the unexpected wisdom calming the turmoil of his thoughts. He sat on his usual stool in the corner, and pulled out his book. After lunch, Pierce left, and the entire studio seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Bucky stayed unusually reticent until they arrived at his house that evening. Once inside the door, Bucky let out what sounded like a growl and, before Steve could stop him, spun around and punched the wall between the hall and kitchen. As he pulled back for a second swing, Steve grabbed his arm.

“Don’t,” Steve got out between clenched teeth as Bucky struggled against him.

“Fuck you,” Bucky spat, swinging his left fist at Steve’s jaw, but Steve neatly sidestepped the blow, twisting Bucky’s arm up between his shoulder blades.

“Buck, you need to calm down,” Steve said evenly, and felt the fight drain from Bucky’s body.

“Sorry,” Bucky said sheepishly as Steve let him go. “I just… I’m sorry, Steve.”

“It’s okay. Let me look at your hand.”

“My hand’s fine,” Bucky told him, holding it up so Steve could see the slight reddening across his knuckles.

“The wall punching may not be your worst habit, but you really need to unlearn it, Buck.”

“What’s my worst habit?”

“Slurping your coffee,” Steve said without missing a beat, not in the mood for another discussion of Bucky’s drug use. Although, now Steve thought about it, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d noticed Bucky get high.

“Well, you talk with your mouth full,” Bucky defended mock-petulantly.

“I do not!” Steve put his hand to his heart, trying for an offended expression.

“Speaking of, are you gonna make dinner tonight?”

“I… yeah, sure,” Steve said, a little surprised. Bucky had refused all his earlier offers of cooking.

Bucky sat at on a stool, watching as Steve grilled steaks and fried potatoes and chopped vegetables for salad. He asked careful questions about Steve’s childhood and military days. Steve answered them as openly as he could while avoiding the more painful memories. Bucky listened to Steve’s answers, nodding and prodding for more information between sips of orange soda. Steve paused mid-anecdote to look at the glass in Bucky’s hand. He usually had a couple of beers or vodka when they got home from the studio. Now Steve thought about it, he was sure he hadn’t seen Bucky drink anything alcoholic for more than a week. Instead of calling attention to it, however, Steve just continued his story of the time he and Gabe had gotten stuck up a tree in the middle of a firefight in hostile territory, waving a paring knife for emphasis and feeling a warm bubble in his stomach as Bucky chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

 

They ate while watching Natural Born Killers, and Bucky let out a surprised yelp, a huge grin on his face as Steve quoted most of the movie.

“You’ve actually seen this?!”

Steve rolled his eyes at Bucky’s shocked expression. “Oliver Stone and Woody Harrelson? How could I not?”  
“You hadn’t seen Star Wars, what was I supposed to think?”

“Fair point.”

After the movie, Bucky went up to the studio and Steve sat on his bed, pulling out his sketchbook again. He listened to the music filtering through the half-open studio door to his bedroom and continued his design for Bucky’s tattoo. The scratch of pencil on paper lasted long after Bucky’s bedroom door closed with a soft _click_ and it was again near dawn when Steve collapsed face-first into his pillow, still fully clothed.

His dreams were quiet, peaceful. He and Bucky were sitting on soft grass near the base of a large tree, the sky overcast, but no rain falling yet. Bucky was reading, head bent over a hardcover tome so that soft strands of hair fell forward across his cheeks. Whatever was written on the yellowed pages was making Bucky smile his crinkly-eyed smile and Steve breathed a contented sigh as he watched him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a Bucky chapter [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9002302) for those who haven't read it yet. 
> 
> Love you guys, never forget that you are important and appreciated...


	28. I've Paid The Masters With Blood And Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Hellhound by Pantera.
> 
> Uh, so this chapter is huge (about double the length of the other chapters) and it's written in a weird non-linear way, and I'm not sure if I like it. Oh, well. 
> 
> Uhm, hey, it's 2017, yay! Happy not-2016-anymore-thank-god to you all!

_It seems like every day’s the same_

_and I’m left to discover on my own_

_It seems like everything is gray_

_and there’s no color to behold_

_They say it’s over and I’m fine again, yeah_

_Try to stay sober feels like I’m dying here_

_And I am aware now of how_

_everything’s gonna be fine one day_

_Too late, I’m in hell I am prepared now,_

_seems everyone’s gonna be fine_

_One day too late, just as well_

_I feel the dream in me expire_

_and there’s no one left to blame it on_

_I hear you label me a liar_

_‘cause I can’t seem to get this through_

_You say it’s over, I can sigh again, yeah_

_Why try to stay sober when I’m dying here_

_\- Fine Again, Seether_

_~_

_You and I are underdosed and we're ready to fall_

_Raised to be stupid, taught to be nothing at all_

_I don't like the drugs but the drugs like me_

_I don't like the drugs, the drugs, the drugs_

_There's a hole in our soul, that we fill with dope. And we're feeling fine._

_\- I Don’t Like the Drugs (But the Drugs Like Me), Marilyn Manson_

_~_

_Jesus, won't you fucking whistle_

_Something but the past is done?_

_Jesus, won't you fucking whistle_

_Something but the past is done?_

_I am just a worthless liar._

_I am just an imbecile._

_I will only complicate you._

_Trust in me and fall as well._

_I will find a center in you._

_I will chew it up and leave,_

_I will work to elevate you_

_Just enough to bring you down._

_Mother Mary won't you whisper_

_Something but the past is done._

_Mother Mary won't you whisper_

_Something but the past is done._

_Why can't we not be sober?_

_Just want to start this over._

_Why can't we sleep forever._

_I just want to start this over._

_\- Sober, Tool_

_~_

_Slow and_

_Everybody wants you_

_So_

_Slow and_

_Everybody wants your soul_

_Give me what I could never ask for_

_connect me and you could be my chemical now_

_Give me the drug you know I'm after_

_Connect me and you could be the chemical_

_You could be the chemical_

_\- Slow Chemical, Finger Eleven_

~

 

“Steve, wake up,” Bucky’s voice filtered down to wake Steve from a dreamless sleep, “we’re landing soon.”

Steve nodded, bringing up one hand to rub sleep from his eyes so that he could look out at the sun drenched landscape of California through the small airplane window. His shoulders and back were cramped despite the first class seats where he and Siberia were sitting. Next to him, Bucky tucked a battered paperback into the black knapsack he’d carried on board.

Steve leaned forward, trying to stretch out a kink in his lower back. It wasn’t very successful, and he sat back with a stifled groan to put on his seatbelt. The flight hadn’t been long, but it had been one of the most uncomfortable of Steve’s life.

He thought back to the last six weeks and bit back a sigh.

 

_“Steve, c’mon, you’re already missing his actual birthday, now you wanna bail on this too?”_

_“Sam will understand,” Steve said, handing Bucky a mug of coffee._

_“It’s one day!” Bucky spread his hands in exasperation. “What do you think will happen? Is Pierce gonna corner me in some dark corner of the studio?”_

_“No, but he might follow you home.”_

_Bucky’s shoulder’s hunched. “Sam is your best friend, you said so yourself.”_

_“Yeah, and he’ll understand if I have to miss one lunch,” Steve reasoned._

_“That’s the point,” Bucky insisted, “you don’t_ have _to miss it!”_

_Steve groaned. They’d been going back and forth on the issue of Sam’s very early birthday lunch ever since Bucky had walked in on his phone call to Steve that morning._

_“Buck, I told you, I’m not leaving you alone.” Steve’s voice held a note of finality._

_Bucky glowered, taking a gulp of coffee. In the silence, Steve took a sip of his own, leaning forward on his elbows where he was standing at the kitchen counter. It sucked that he had to bail on Sam, but Bucky had been denying Pierce with flimsier and flimsier excuses for weeks now and the older man was not taking it well._

_“Steve,” Bucky started, holding out one hand, palm out, in a gesture to show he was being reasonable, “how about a compromise?”_

_“What compromise?”_

_“How ‘bout, you take the day off, but come back here after we finish in the studio?”_

_Steve considered for a moment. “Fine. But I drop you off at the studio and pick you up.”_

_“I can drive myself, Steve,” Bucky rolled his eyes._

_“I know,” Steve told him, “but you wanted to compromise.”_

_“Okay, fine, you can drop me off,_ but _after the studio, since it’s technically your day off, you have to come out for a drink.”_

_“Bucky,” Steve started, but Bucky held up one finger._

_“Compromise, Stevie. Now go tell Sam the good news.”_

The plane touched down smoothly on the tarmac, and Steve stood, following Bucky out of the plane. The sun was beating down mercilessly, belying the fact that it was fall, and Steve shoved a pair of sunglasses onto his nose one-handed, shouldering his duffel bag with the other. The band trooped into a van, the air conditioner turned up as cold as it could go. Steve sat between Bucky and Scott, and did his best to ignore the way Bucky’s tattooed arm brushed against his in the confines of the vehicle. The drive to the festival grounds felt much longer than it actually was, and Steve grit his teeth, fighting down the urge to scream every time Bucky leaned across him to say something to one of the other band members. Steve knew Bucky wasn’t doing it on purpose, but he couldn’t help but feel that this was his punishment for being such an idiot.

 

 

_Lunch with Sam, Nat and Clint was amazing, and Steve felt a surge of gratitude to Bucky for forcing the issue of him not cancelling. He talked and laughed with his friends, and felt a little bubble of joy as Sam opened his gift – a framed sketch Steve had done of Sam in profile – and his jaw dropped in awe, almost entirely ignoring the gift card Steve had included in case Sam didn’t like the picture._

_Both Natasha and Clint demanded similar gifts from him and Steve acquiesced with a grin._

_After lunch, which ran slightly later than Steve intended, he went to pick up Bucky at the studio, sliding his Harley to a stop in front of the building. Bucky was leaning against the wall outside the door, legs clad in pale denim crossed at the ankle, strands of hair escaping from his messy bun, sleeves of his black Henley pushed up to his elbows. He grinned as he pushed off the wall to approach Steve, still straddling the bike. Wordlessly, Steve handed Bucky a helmet and watched the movement of his fingers as he pulled it on and buckled the straps under his chin. Then Bucky gripped Steve’s shoulders to balance himself as he threw one leg over the bike behind Steve._

_To cover his sharp intake of breath at Bucky’s touch, Steve cleared his throat. “So, where to?”_

_“Luke’s,” Bucky said next to Steve’s ear, his hot breath making goosebumps rise on his skin._

_Steve revved the engine and pulled away, swallowing heavily as Bucky’s arms tightened around his waist._

The festival grounds were hot and chaotic, with an air of the macabre, and Steve felt – for the first time since Europe – out of place next to the band. He tugged at the collar of his white Siberia shirt, then pushed his sunglasses further up his nose.

Bucky lightly hip checked Steve, nodding toward a large bus bearing the Siberia logo. The band’s tour bus and equipment had been sent down a day previously, but the band had to finish recording and mixing for a song they hoped to release as a single before the album came out, and had followed by plane. They trooped toward the bus to stow their bags and check that everything was in order. After settling everything, Bucky broke away from the rest of Siberia, and Steve followed. Bucky stopped occasionally to greet people and introduce Steve. The names (David, Jim, Scott, Zakk, Clown (Clown???), Kerry, Johan and Johan) were lost as soon as Steve heard them, even though he tried his best to be polite and say the right things. Bucky shot him a puzzled frown once or twice, but Steve avoided his gaze. _It’s not Bucky’s fault,_ Steve kept telling himself, but it didn’t seem to make things better. They made their way to the refreshment tent and Steve stayed several paces back as Bucky went up to the bar to wait his turn for a drink.

“Hey, did they finally fire that prick and get a new guitarist?” A voice said from behind Steve, and he turned to find a man about a head shorter than him, with reddish blond hair and blue eyes, his smile revealing a slight gap tooth. Steve recognized him from the covers of his books; Corey Taylor.

“Uh, no,” Steve muttered. He held out his hand. “I’m Steve, James’ bodyguard. Brock’s still got his job.”

Corey shook Steve’s hand. “Good to meet you, man, I’m Corey. It’s too bad about Brock.”

Steve gave a lopsided smile. “He’s a good guitarist, though. James gave me your books to read, they’re really good.”

“Aww, thanks, dude,” Corey said, then flicked his gaze over Steve’s shoulder. “Speak of the devil.”

“And he shall appear and kick your ass,” Bucky said from behind Steve. “How you doing, Corey?”

“Good man, good.” Corey took the bottle of water Bucky held out to him with a nod of thanks.

Bucky handed Steve a bottle, too, before twisting the cap off his own and taking a swallow.

“You on the wagon?” Corey asked, his gaze narrowed shrewdly.

“Something like that,” Bucky said dismissively, then grinned. “Oh, shit, I gotta go break something of Sid’s, be right back!”

“Not his fingers!” Corey called out after him, “We need him for the show!”

Steve watched Bucky tackle a guy wearing a DJ Starscream t-shirt.

“When did that happen?” Corey asked and Steve looked at him, puzzled.

“When did what happen?” Steve asked.

“I’ve never seen James Barnes completely sober. And I’ve known him almost ten years.”

Steve scratched at the label on his bottle of water with one fingernail. “It’s recent. He still has a drink or two now and then.”

“He’s off the heroin?” Corey asked in surprise, turning to where Bucky and the man who must be Sid were walking toward them.

_Luke leaned over the bar to shake hands with both Steve and Bucky, and Steve went over to secure a table while Bucky lingered at the bar to get drinks. He came back to the table with two beers, and clinked the neck of his against Steve’s before taking a sip. Steve averted his eyes from the way Bucky’s lips parted around the bottle and took a sip of his own drink to try and drown the heat suffusing his limbs. This was much too intimate and like a date for Steve to be at all comfortable, even as Bucky made him chuckle with anecdotes of the band’s first tour._

_He was drinking too much, he realized, as he downed yet another shot of bourbon, but the alcohol made his tumultuous thoughts settle down and if that meant he could watch Bucky throw back his head with laughter at Steve’s stupid jokes, then he didn’t want to stop._

_“This is the first time I’ve seen you tipsy,” Bucky noted, pushing another shot toward Steve._

_“I’m not,” Steve disagreed, but he knew he was. Even so, he downed the shot, toying with the empty glass._

_“Yeah, of course not,” Bucky said with a snort of laughter. “Let’s fix that.”_

“I couldn’t really say,” Steve answered Corey’s question, just as Bucky bumped into his side, shoved by Sid. He automatically reached out a hand to steady Bucky, and immediately regretted it as Bucky’s cool fingertips closed over his own.

“C’mon, Stevie,” Bucky said, tugging Steve away from Corey and Sid. “You can socialize with the riff-raff later.”

Corey flipped them off as they exited the tent, where Bucky mercifully let go off his hand.

“You okay?” Bucky asked a few paces later as the headed back toward the band’s bus.

“I’m fine,” Steve said, unsuccessfully trying not to snap at Bucky.

“No, you’re not.”

Steve shrugged, not in the mood to explain himself.

“Steve,” Bucky stopped dead in his tracks. He seemed to dither for a second. “It’s only a few more days. I know you can’t wait to put us… me… in your rearview mirror.”

And there Bucky had it, if backwards. Steve’s contract ended after the festival. And then he and Bucky would part ways. There would be no more reason for him to stick around. And Bucky would be right here, where Pierce could get to him, drive him back into addiction to cope with what that bastard did to him. And Steve would be unable to do anything, following around some politician and pining for a man he’d never have.

“For a smart guy,” Steve retorted, “you can be really stupid.”

He walked away, toward the band, without looking back at Bucky.

 

_“Shit,” Bucky whispered loudly, a giggle bubbling up past his lips as his keys jingled their way down the front steps to land on the sidewalk._

_“Butterfingers,” Steve taunted as he stumbled back down the steps to retrieve the keys and then laboriously climbed back up to unlock the front door._

_They stumbled inside, giggling at nothing and toppling onto the couch in a tangle of uncoordinated limbs._

_Bucky somehow tucked himself into Steve’s side, his elbow digging sharply into Steve’s ribs and his chin heavy on Steve’s sternum._

_Bucky let out a hiccup, then giggled some more, and Steve was sure he’d have a cleft-chin shaped bruise on his chest the next day, but Bucky was warm and comfortable and he didn’t want him to move away._

_“I think that last shot was six too many,” Steve mumbled, shifting a little to wedge his arm beneath his head, the movement bringing his face within inches Bucky’s._

_“Lightweight,” Bucky poked his stomach with his free hand. “Grandpa.”_

_“Still younger than you,” Steve reminded him._

_“When’s your birthday?”_

_“July fourth.”_

_Bucky’s eyes widened. “You never said! Why’d you never say? We could’ve had a party or s’mthin’.”_

_Steve shrugged as best he could with Bucky’s weight pressing him down. “’S not that big of a deal.”_

_“Yeah, it is. We should’ve had cake.” Bucky looked suddenly genuinely sad. “Chocolate cake. With blue icing. And M &M’s.”_

_Steve used his free hand to pat the top of Bucky’s head. “There, there. It’s just cake.”_

_“Chocolate cake,” Bucky lamented, pouting._

_“I don’t like chocolate cake.”_

_“You shut your blasphemous mouth!” Bucky put his hand across the lower half of Steve’s face, and Steve licked his palm in retaliation._

_“Ew,” Bucky pulled his hand away to wipe it on Steve’s dark blue t-shirt._

_There was a moment of quiet, and Steve knew he should get up, put some distance between them. The alcohol was slowly burning out of his bloodstream, and in its wake, Steve found himself painfully aware of Bucky’s warmth where they were pressed together from shoulder to knee._

_“Stevie,” Bucky’s voice was slurring, his eyelids drooping, his lashes forming shadows over his cheekbones. “You scare me sometimes…”_

The hours at the festival passed slowly, and Steve kept his distance from Bucky, who mostly ignored him, pretending not to notice Steve’s presence in his periphery. They caught a few hours of pre-dawn sleep on Siberia’s bus before starting the process of getting ready to play that evening. They had an early slot, several acts before Slipknot, who were headlining.

 

Siberia took to the stage amid screams from the crowd, and Bucky adjusted the strap of his guitar as he stepped up to the microphone, the first cord of one of their earlier songs drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Several songs later, there was a lull in the music, only the rolling thud of Rollins’ bass and the occasional tingle of Wade’s cymbals audible as Bucky took a long drink of water, before leaning forward to grab the mic off its stand.

“Hey, there, you crazy bastards,” he said huskily, and the crowd screamed in response. “We’re recording our new album, and we thought we’d give you a little taste. Sound good?”

The reaction was enthusiastic, and loud enough to make Steve wish he’d brought earmuffs.

The song started off with a staccato beat from bass and drums, then a few sharp, gritty chords from Rumlow accompanied by an earsplitting screech from Scott’s turntables, before Bucky’s whispered vocals filtered through.

_“Take me, shape me…_

_Lead me, leave me…_

_Alone and…_

_Transformed.”_

The last word was held on an endlessly soaring harmony between Bucky and Wade, while Bucky picked a slow melody on his guitar. The effect was eerie, even more so as Bucky turned toward the wings, making eye-contact with Steve as he repeated the lines.

Steve swallowed hard, but couldn’t look away. Bucky, on stage right then, was a vision to behold, something otherworldly. Something unattainable and perfect.

 

_“You scare me sometimes…”_

_Bucky’s words were painful and Steve pulled in a sharp breath._

_“Why?” he breathed, shifting out from under Bucky to sit up. The movement was meant to put distance between them, but Bucky followed, pulling his legs up to rest on Steve’s lap, burying himself against Steve’s side, his hair tickling Steve’s throat._

_“Because you’re so good,” Bucky murmured against his chest. “I’ve never met someone as good as you.”_

_“I’m not, Bucky,” Steve started, but Bucky shook his head._

_“Yes, you are. And it scares me, ‘cause I think I want you and sometimes I don’t care that I’d never deserve you.”_

_Steve froze, Bucky’s words washing over him in a sobering wave._

_“Bucky,” he started again, but again Bucky cut him off._

_“Don’t,” he breathed, “just don’t say anything, please?”_

_Steve made a pained noise and lifted his hand to the back of Bucky’s neck, titling his head back so he could see Bucky’s face._

_“God, Buck, how could you ever think you don’t deserve me?”_

_Bucky rolled his eyes, the movement sluggish with his intoxication and Steve suddenly regretted not stopping him from drinking almost twice as much as Steve himself. “Steve, you read the file, you know about Russia, you know what I am.”_

_“I know you’re a good man,” Steve whispered. “Bucky, I won’t say I don’t care about your past, because I do care about how much pain you endured, and I’d give anything for you not to have had to go through that. But it doesn’t make any difference to how I feel about you.”_

_“How you…” Bucky frowned, “feel about me?”_

_Steve swallowed painfully, and realized there was just enough alcohol in his bloodstream to make him both brave and stupid enough to answer Bucky._

_“I’ve been in love with you for months,” he said, the words at once weightless and massive as they settled between them._

_Suddenly both Bucky’s cold hands were folding around the back of Steve’s head and neck, pulling him into a kiss. It was slow and careful and Steve let out a sigh against Bucky’s lips as he wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist. Bucky deepened the kiss, tugging Steve forward, then down on top of Bucky as he lay back on the couch. Steve settled between Bucky’s thighs and Bucky dug his teeth delicately into Steve’s bottom lip, arching up against him._

_The movement brought Steve back into his own head, and he pulled away from the kiss. Before he could say anything Bucky made a needy sound, wrapping one leg around Steve’s waist._

_“Don’t you want to fuck me?” Bucky all but growled._

_It took all Steve’s willpower to sit back on his heels. “No, Buck, we can’t.”_

_“Why not?” Bucky demanded, his face falling, hurt flickering in his eyes._

_“Because you’re drunk,” Steve told him._

_“So?”_

_“So, if you’re drunk you can’t give consent. And I’m not doing anything you don’t consent to.”_

_Bucky looked at him blankly for a second. “If you don’t want me, say so. You don’t need to think up some ridiculous excuse.” Bucky started to get up, turning away from Steve, but Steve grabbed his hand, tugging him back down._

_“It’s not an excuse,” he said, moving around so Bucky had to face him. “I want you, God, you have no idea how much. But not when you’re not sober, okay?”_

_Bucky let out a breath, before nodding. “Okay.”_

_“Okay,” Steve agreed, then sat up to press a kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “I’m going to bed. Sweet dreams, Buck.”_

_“G’night, Steve.”_

Siberia stuck around at the side of the stage to watch the other bands perform, and even Steve had to admit to being impressed by the sheer skill of the performers on stage, even though he was sure a couple of Slipknot’s members would show up in his nightmares.

Afterwards, they trooped back to the bus, tired and sweaty. Their bunks welcomed them, and Steve was asleep as soon as his head hit the thin pillow.

 

_Steve woke up slowly, the ache behind his eyes an instant reminder of the events of the previous night. He sighed, letting his thoughts dwell for a moment on the kiss he and Bucky had shared. Bucky wanted him. He’d told Bucky he was in love with him and Bucky had kissed him. He had no idea if Bucky felt the same, no way of knowing if what Bucky wanted from him was anything more than just sex. It scared him, made his heart clench painfully. Steve ran his hands over his face and got up to take a shower. He found Bucky in the kitchen half an hour later, where he was nursing a mug of black coffee, looking a lot more hungover than Steve himself felt._

_“Morning, Buck,” he said carefully, stepping around the counter. Bucky gave a groan and held out his mug to Steve in a pitiful way, begging silently for a refill. Steve smiled and complied, nudging the newly steaming mug back toward Bucky._

_“Thanks,” Bucky mumbled, “why are you so bright-eyed and bushy tailed? It’s offensive.”_

_“I didn’t drink as much as you, remember.”_

_Bucky’s head snapped up. “What?”_

_“You drank twice as much as I did. It’s almost impressive actually.”_

_“You were drinking with me?”_

_Bucky’s question hit Steve like a cold fist. “Yeah, we went to Luke’s last night.”_

_“Who?”_

_“Me and you, Buck,” Steve said, trying his best to keep his voice level. “You don’t remember?”_

_Bucky shook his head, then hissed as the movement aggravated his headache. “There was an empty bottle in my room this morning, with… never mind.”_

_Something painful tore against Steve’s ribcage. Bucky had gotten high after Steve had gone to bed. Bucky didn’t remember anything they had done. Bucky didn’t remember Steve telling him he was in love with him. Steve took a gulp of coffee to swallow down the bile rising in his throat._

_After a while, where the kitchen was much too quiet, Bucky cleared his throat._

_“Did we have a good time?”_

_“Uh, yeah,” Steve said lamely. “I have to send a couple of emails, I’ll be upstairs.”_

_He escaped the kitchen, only to sag back against the closed door of his bedroom. Bucky didn’t remember. It hurt, an acid burn behind Steve’s sternum. Bucky didn’t remember, because he’d just had to fucking get high._

_Bucky didn’t remember. He’d shot up and forgotten all about Steve’s confession in the bright destruction of his beloved heroin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, confession time. I fucking love Corey Taylor. Like FUCKING LOVE him. He has been my idol and inspiration for almost 10 years (I'm old, get over it). He is an amazing person, smart and kind and talented. If you haven't done so yet, I really, really recommend reading his books (especially Seven Deadly Sins). They are intelligent and hilarious and surprisingly inspirational. I've learned so much from both his books and music and I owe him a debt of gratitude for each word and lyric.   
> "Remember, you're a wreck, an accident. Forget the freak, you're just nature. Keep the gun oiled and the temple clean, shit, snort and blaspheme, let the heads cool and the engine run. Because in the end, everything we do, is just everything we've done." - Omega, Stone Sour


	29. Like A Junkie I Hurt For It. A Bad Trip, The Emptiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Hard Lines, Sunken Cheeks by Pantera.
> 
> Bucky chapter over [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9182899) if you missed it.
> 
> A quick note I should have made like three chapters ago: In this fic Sharon and Peggy are not related to each other (the fact that they canonically are is just super creepy anyway)
> 
> Also, I know I promised an update ages ago, I'm sorry I didn't do it. I've just been in a bit of a funk. But, hey, you're getting two (extra long) chapters at once, so that makes up for it.

_It's not like I made myself a list_

_Of new and different ways to murder your heart_

_I'm just painting that's still wet,_

_If you touch me, I'll be smeared_

_You'll be stained_

_Stained for the rest of your life_

_So turn around, walk away_

_Before you confuse the way we abuse each other_

_If you're not afraid of getting hurt_

_Then I'm not afraid of how much I hurt you_

_I'm well aware I'm a danger to myself_

_Are you aware I'm a danger to others?_

_There's a crack in my soul_

_You thought was a smile_

_I'm more like a silver bullet_

_And I'm like a gun, not easy to hold_

_I'm moving fast and if I stay inside your heart_

_I'm certain that this will be_

_The end of your life_

_So turn around, walk away_

_Before you confuse the way we abuse each other_

_If you're not afraid of getting hurt_

_Then I'm not afraid of how much I hurt you_

_I'm well aware I'm a danger to myself_

_Are you aware I'm a danger to others?_

_There's a crack in my soul_

_You thought was a smile_

_Whatever doesn't kill you..._

_Is gonna leave a scar_

_Whatever doesn't kill you..._

_Is gonna leave a scar_

_Leave a scar_

_Leave a scar_

_Whatever doesn't kill you, it's gonna leave a scar_

_\- Leave a Scar, Marilyn Manson_

 

~

 

They arrived back in New York under gray skies, a light rain starting to fall as Bucky drove them back to his brownstone. They didn’t talk, the first Korn album the only thing breaking the tense silence as Steve stared out the window at the gray city.

Once inside Bucky’s house, in the hall with all their luggage surrounding them, Bucky turned on Steve, blocking his way to the living area and staircase.

“What the hell is going on with you, Steve?”

The question was unwelcome, and Steve very nearly pushed Bucky bodily out of his way to avoid answering it. Instead, logic prevailed and he looked up at the ceiling as though he could find the perfect answer there.

“Nothing is going on with me.” The words were tight, clipped.

“Like hell,” Bucky retorted. “You’ve been distant and sullen for weeks. And this weekend…” He trailed off and Steve felt a hot trickle of guilt down the back of his neck. Bucky didn’t need to remind Steve of the way he’d snapped at him at the festival.

“Can you just drop it?” Steve said, perilously close to yelling at Bucky.

Bucky glared at him. “No.”

This time, Steve did attempt to push past Bucky, to escape upstairs, but Bucky blocked him, grabbing his shoulders and giving a light shove to back Steve up against the wall.

“Stop being so fucking childish!” The words were out of Steve’s mouth before he could stop them.

Bucky shoved him again, harder, his back hitting the wall as he stumbled over his own feet. “Childish?! You give me the cold shoulder for weeks, you call me stupid, _you_ refuse to man-up and spit out what’s bothering you, but yeah, sure, _I’m childish_.”

Steve had never seen Bucky angry like this, much less had that anger directed at him. Somehow, instead of riling Steve up even more, it calmed him, settled something that had been boiling in his chest since the morning after Luke’s. He sagged back against the wall, hard and cold beneath the thin hoodie he was wearing.

“I’m sorry,” he told Bucky.

“Tell me,” Bucky insisted.

Steve shook his head, unsure of where to even begin. The weight of the situation settled heavily on his shoulders, making them hunch forward, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie to hide how they were starting to tremble.

Bucky didn’t move. He stood still and steady, his gaze fixed intently on Steve’s face. It made Steve squirm, curling even further in on himself, wishing to be smaller, to disappear. Finally, finally, Steve thought the silence would drive him crazy.

“You don’t remember,” Steve said, then winced. Those were not the words he’d meant to say, not the weak excuse he’d formulated in his mind.

For a second, Steve was sure Bucky would ask ‘remember what?’, but instead the other man’s eyes – so blue, why did they have to be so fucking blue, Steve wondered – widened.

“You mean Luke’s,” Bucky said slowly, a slow frown pulling his brows down over his eyes. “Did something happen?”

Steve shrugged, as unwilling to have this conversation now as he had been the morning after the night in question.

“What happened, Steve?” Bucky demanded.

“Nothing important,” Steve breathed, pushed off the wall and again attempted to shoulder past Bucky. This time he got as far as the staircase when Bucky’s voice stopped him.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he said and Steve stopped dead.

Steve didn’t turn, said the words to the bottom stair. “And you’re just a junkie.”

He lifted his foot to take the first step up the staircase, then the second, then the third. He reached the fourth stair before Bucky’s hand clamped around his arm, put his foot on the fifth just as Bucky tugged him around. It was too reminiscent of their first kiss, weeks ago on the very same staircase and Steve tore his arm out of Bucky’s grip and made it up the sixth and seventh stairs with white noise screaming in his ears, drowning out Bucky saying his name. The eighth stair, the ninth, tenth, then he felt Bucky’s hand on his arm again, and his hearing filtered back.

“- sorry, okay, I know you hate the drugs, God, Steve, just stop for a second.”

Steve made the last few stairs without counting, his focus intent on the grip Bucky still had on his forearm.

“Steve,” Bucky said, stepping around Steve so they were face to face. “Just tell me what happened, please, Stevie.”

“We went to Luke’s,” Steve said, each word unwillingly forced past his lips, “we got drunk, we came here.”

“And then?”

Steve fixed his gaze on the wall behind Bucky’s left elbow. “And then we both said stupid shit, I went to bed, you got high and forgot all about it.”

“Stupid shit? Did we have another fight?”

An ugly laugh forced itself through Steve’s teeth. “If only.”

Steve refused to look at Bucky’s face, but he heard the tiny hitch in his breath.

“Did I kiss you again?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, but carried a sharp edge of fear, a sound terribly familiar to Steve, one he’d heard on battlefields and during firefights for years.

“Yes,” Steve said flatly, “after I told you I’m in love with you.”

There was silence. Steve pulled his gaze away from the wall, to look at Bucky’s face. His expression was a strange combination on fear and pain and shame, and something worse that pulled at his lips and made him blink slowly.

When Bucky stayed quiet, Steve narrowed his eyes. “I told you that, and you kissed me, and when I said I wouldn’t have sex with you while you’re drunk, you came up here and stuck a needle under your skin.”

Bucky slowly shook his head.

“I don’t understand.”

“You didn’t seem to that night, either,” Steve snapped.

Bucky seemed to cast around for what to say. “You were drunk, too?” he finally asked.

“Not as drunk as you, but yes.”

Bucky nodded, then took a breath. “Why… no, I mean, I get it, never mind. I’m sorry.” He turned in a half-circle, and dragged his fingers through his hair.

“You get what?”

“Why you wouldn’t have sex with me,” Bucky rolled his eyes as if that were obvious, and Steve was struck by how much this situation seemed to mirror the one before. It made him angry again, the heat of it pooling beneath his skin.

“No, you fucking don’t!” It was just barely not a shout and Bucky recoiled, stumbling back half a step. “I had to fucking explain it to you then, too! And if you hadn’t been so in love with your goddamned heroin, you would still remember it!”

“How many more times do I have to apologize for that?!” Bucky shouted back. “I said I was sorry! So why don’t you just explain it all again, huh?!”

“Fine,” Steve hissed. “I wouldn’t have sex with you because you were too intoxicated to give consent.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bucky began, but Steve cut him off.

“It’s not ridiculous, and it wasn’t an excuse either.”

“Fine,” Bucky grit out, though Steve could plainly see Bucky didn’t believe him. “Anything else happen?”

“No.”

Bucky raised a hand to his chin, scratching lightly at the stubble there.

“You’re not gonna ask about the elephant in the room?” Steve said at length, something sour rising at the back of his throat.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “You thinking you’re in love with me? That was just the alcohol, Steve.”

The world seemed to distort around Steve for a second.

“I’m sober now.”

“Steve,” Bucky said, his eyes pleading, “that’s a cruel joke.”

“It’s not a joke.” Steve’s heart was hammering so hard in his chest he was sure it was chipping away at his ribcage. “I am.”

“You can’t be,” Bucky whispered. “You read the file, you know what I am.”

It was almost word for word what Bucky had said the night after Luke’s.

“It doesn’t change how I feel,” Steve told him.

“It should,” Bucky’s voice was almost inaudible.

“Why?”

“Because… because I’m damaged, used up, stained.”

“No, you’re kind, and generous and funny and smart and you’re a good person, Bucky.”

Bucky’s eyes fell closed, his lips twisted down, throat working like he was trying to swallow something bitter.

“We have to pick up Fred,” Bucky finally uttered, his eyes opening slowly to look at Steve’s shoulder.

“Okay,” Steve said quietly. “I’m sure she misses you.”

Bucky nodded, but didn’t move to descend the stairs. He cleared his throat. “Why doesn’t it matter to you? My past.”

“I never said it doesn’t. It matters how much pain you endured. If I could do anything to go back and spare you, I would, I swear. It just doesn’t make me feel differently about you.”

Bucky took a breath, still not meeting Steve’s eyes. “I’ve never… never _wanted_ sex, not really. I mean, I do it, because having sex with a fan is preferable to Pierce, and because sometimes they expect it, given my, uh, reputation.”

“You could have said no,” Steve said gently.

Bucky let out a strangled little giggle. “Right, yeah, theoretically, but that would just make everything even more unpleasant, believe me.”

Steve did believe him, and it hurt, down to his core.

“The point is,” Bucky continued before Steve had a chance to say anything, “I never wanted it, never even thought about it as something I would actually _want_ to do, until you came along.”

Steve swallowed heavily. Nodded, because he was pretty sure his vocal cords were out for the count, because suddenly Bucky’s gaze met his, a heat there Steve had never seen before.

“Steve,” Bucky said, and Steve nodded a second time, sure that he’d never be able to speak again.

Bucky stepped closer, reaching out to fist one hand around the front of Steve’s white t-shirt, one finger of the other hand hooking through the belt loop of Steve’s jeans. Then Bucky’s lips were on his and Steve’s hands were both tangled in Bucky’s hair. Bucky nipped at Steve’s lips, and Steve opened up to allow him entrance, moaning into Bucky’s mouth as their tongues brushed. Bucky tasted like mint and chocolate and Steve knew he’d never have enough of that flavor, not even if he lived to be a hundred.

They moved down the hall as they kissed, and Bucky pressed Steve back against his bedroom door, not breaking the kiss even as he fumbled with the door knob, not even as they stumbled through the doorway. It was Steve who pulled away when his knees hit the edge of Bucky’s bed.

“Bucky,” Steve grabbed Bucky’s shoulders as he leaned in to resume the kiss, “wait, just gimme a second.”

Bucky paused, his breath coming in ragged little gasps and Steve knew his own wasn’t much steadier.

“Bucky, I need you to promise me something,” he got out, and Bucky’s eyes narrowed.

“Promise you what?”

“That if I do anything, _anything,_ you don’t like, you’ll tell me to stop.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Steve, that’s – “

“It’s not stupid. I’m not like Pierce, or anyone else you’ve been with. If you want to stop, for any reason, even if you think it’s silly, you tell me and I will stop. Promise me.”

Bucky nodded. “Okay. I promise.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, and leaned forward to peck at Bucky’s lips, feeling the other man give a lopsided smile.

Bucky pulled him into a brief, searing kiss before pulling away to divest Steve of his hoodie, before tugging at Steve’s shirt with one hand, while working at the buckle of his jeans with the other, but Steve covered Bucky’s hands with his own.

“What about Fred?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “She’ll be perfectly happy at Darcy’s for another day.”

“Okay, good,” Steve said, but didn’t let go of Bucky’s hands. “So why the rush? We can take our time.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really dislike this chapter. I dislike the next one even more, and it's like 5k words. :(


	30. Simply To Thy Ghost I Cling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Hard Lines, Sunken Cheeks by Pantera.
> 
> Two chapters at the same time? It's a January miracle!
> 
> Full disclosure: I am not good at writing sex scenes.  
> I really, really dislike this chapter. It's so long and awkward in places and just, ugh. Sorry, lovelies.

_I'd cross the sea to you_

_I've left myself deserted here again_

_I'd cross the sea to you_

_My pieces are too broken now to mend_

_In the middle_

_Under a cold black sky_

_The sun will only burn for you and I_

_In the moment_

_Before I lose my mind_

_These hours don't mean anything this time_

_Give me a sign_

_Show me the line_

_Maybe tonight_

_I'll tell you everything_

_I'd cross the world for you_

_My reasons have no reason to remain_

_I'd cross the world for you_

_I don't know what I'm doing wrong but I can’t stay the same_

_In the middle_

_Under a clear blue sky_

_The sun can only burn for you and I_

_In the moment_

_Before I lose my mind_

_These hours don't mean anything this time_

_Give me a sign_

_Show me the line_

_Maybe tonight_

_I'll tell you everything_

_\- Taciturn, Stone Sour_

_~_

_Hold me now I need to feel relief_

_Like I never wanted anything_

_I suppose I'll let this go and find a reason I'll hold on to_

_I'm so ashamed of defeat_

_And I'm out of reason to believe in me_

_I'm out of trying to get by_

_I can't face myself when I wake up_

_And look inside a mirror_

_I'm so ashamed of that thing_

_I suppose I'll let it go_

_Until I have something more to say for me_

_I'm so afraid of defeat_

_And I'm out of reason to believe in me_

_I'm out of trying to defy_

_I'm so afraid of the gift you give me_

_I don't belong here and I'm not well_

_I'm so ashamed of the lie I'm living_

_Right on the wrong side of it all_

_Hold me now I need to feel complete_

_Like I matter to the one I need_

_I'm so afraid of the gift you give me_

_I don't belong here and I'm not well_

_I'm so ashamed of the lie I'm living_

_Right on the wrong side of it all_

_\- The Gift, Seether_

 

~

 

Steve leaned forward, reaching around Bucky to grip his thighs and haul him up against his body. He swallowed Bucky’s gasp as he fit their mouths back together for a lazy kiss, Bucky’s hands locked around his shoulders, legs hooked over his waist. He turned, climbing onto the bed, still kneeling, to deposit Bucky back against the dark blue pillows, holding his weight on his elbows to hover over Bucky, who was again trying to divest Steve of his clothes. Steve smiled, leaning down to give Bucky’s bottom lip a tiny kitten lick, before sitting back to allow Bucky to tug his shirt off and toss it aside. Bucky’s hands went to the hem of his own plain black t-shirt, but Steve brushed them aside. “Let me?”

Bucky nodded and folded his arms behind his head. Steve tugged lightly at the fabric of his shirt, then scooted back to place a kiss where it covered Bucky’s bellybutton. Bucky made a small sound.

“What are you doing?”

Steve smiled up at him. “Taking it slow.” He slid his fingers under Bucky’s shirt and pulled the fabric up a couple of inches, just enough to reveal the tattoo below Bucky’s bellybutton. He read the words, then placed an open-mouthed kiss to the skin that drew a hiss from Bucky. Steve marveled at the goosebumps that rose on Bucky’s skin, before tracing the tip of his tongue over each inked letter.

Bucky made another sound, squirming a little.

“You good?” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice sounded a little strangled.

Steve nipped the skin next to Bucky’s bellybutton, then dipped his tongue inside, before moving his shirt up farther. Steve continued his slow exploration, kissing and licking his way across the ridges of muscle over Bucky’s stomach, all the way to his chest. There he took Bucky’s pierced nipple gently between his teeth and Bucky gave a strangled moan. Steve sucked at the cool metal, and Bucky arched under him.

“Fuck, Steve,” Bucky breathed.

Steve moved his attention Bucky’s other nipple, eliciting much the same reaction as he bit lightly into the hard bud. He stayed there for a while, licking at one nipple while rolling the other between his fingers, until Bucky bit out a curse. Steve took mercy on him, sitting up again to slowly pull his shirt off all the way, and toss it after his own. He leaned back down to kiss Bucky, slowly, taking his time to explore Bucky’s mouth the way he’d done with his chest. Bucky groaned and dug his fingers into Steve’s hips, grinding up against him.

“Goddamnit, Stevie,” Bucky snarled into Steve’s mouth, “just fuck me already.”

But Steve shook his head. “That’s not how taking it slow works, Buck.”

“You’re confusing _slow_ with _torture_ , Steven.” But Bucky stopped grinding against Steve, letting go of his hips to run his fingertips along Steve’s spine in teasing little circles.

“There ya go,” Steve murmured approvingly against Bucky’s mouth. “God, it feels good to have you touch me.”

Bucky shivered a little at Steve’s words, dragging blunt nails over Steve’s shoulder blades.

Steve leaned back down, to kiss at Bucky’s neck and Bucky tipped his head back to give him better access. He sucked a hickey against Bucky’s collarbone, making the other man chuckle. Then he started reversing his earlier journey up Bucky’s body, this time more intently. He let his teeth scrape over one protruding hipbone while he tugged off Bucky’s belt, reveling in Bucky’s sharp intake of breath. Steve popped the button on Bucky’s jeans and tugged down his zipper before giving a quiet moan when he realized Bucky wasn’t wearing underwear. For a second Steve had to just breathe to clear his head enough to actually work Bucky’s jeans off his hips and down his legs. He purposefully kept his eyes on the fabric in his hands, because Bucky was more beautiful than he could ever have imagined, and having him here, like this, under Steve’s hands, had him painfully hard in his own jeans.

Finally, Bucky’s jeans and shoes hit the floor, leaving him dressed in nothing but tattoos, and Steve looked at him, really looked at him, spread out on the bed, chest flushed a dusky pink under a thin sheen of sweat. Steve crawled back up the bed, to cradle Bucky’s face in his hands. His eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils dilated until only a ring of blue remained, like twin event horizons around twin black holes and Steve let himself be dragged into them without struggle.

“You are so beautiful, Bucky,” Steve whispered against Bucky’s lips. “So perfect, so amazing. I love you.”

Bucky let out a shuddering breath, almost a sob. His hands cradled the back of Steve’s head. “Say it again?”

“I love you, Bucky,” Steve complied, lifting his head to look into Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky pulled Steve back down to kiss him, his breath hitching in his throat, and Steve used his thumbs to gently rub away the tears forming at the corners of Bucky’s eyes.

“I love you,” he said again, after Bucky’s breathing had evened out a little, his lips moving against Bucky’s.

“I know,” Bucky said, and one corner of his mouth titled up the tiniest bit.

“Was that a Star Wars reference?”

“It may have been,” Bucky was grinning now.

“You little shit,” Steve pulled away far enough to look at Bucky’s face, trying for a stern expression and failing miserably. “Here I am, trying to be sincere and heartfelt, and you ruin it with a Han Solo quote.”

“To be fair, what else did you expect?”

Steve rolled his eyes, but he was smiling too much for it to make an impression. “You’re a jerk.”

“Punk,” Bucky retorted.

In retaliation, Steve hooked his pinkie into Bucky’s nipple ring and gave a gentle tug. Bucky made that little sound in the back of his throat again, and Steve smirked at him, before moving back down Bucky’s body.

He nibbled at Bucky’s hipbone again, letting his fingers skim lightly over the juncture of his thigh.

Steve slowly let his fingers find the silky hardness of Bucky’s cock, and Bucky arched off the bed, a strangled moan leaving his lips to go straight to Steve’s own erection, still trapped in the confines of his jeans.

Steve followed his fingers with his mouth, slowly licked a stripe up the underside of Bucky’s cock, before parting his lips around the head.

“Stop,” Bucky’s voice gasped out above him, “Steve, stop.”

Steve pulled away immediately, sitting up between Bucky’s legs and letting his hands fall limply into his lap. Bucky’s eyes were wide as he propped himself up on his elbows.

“Do you want me to go?” Steve asked.

“No,” Bucky shook his head, “of course not! I just… are you sure you want to… do… that? With me?”

“Yes,” Steve said slowly, “but I won’t if you don’t like it.”

Bucky shook his head again. “No, I do like it. I just… don’t want you to do something you don’t like because you think I will.”

“I want to. I want to taste you, Buck, want to make you feel good.”

Bucky nodded. “Okay.”

Steve slowly touched Bucky again, his cock having lost some hardness while they talked. Steve stroked him slowly, keeping his eyes on Bucky’s face even as Bucky’s gaze fixed on Steve’s hand. Once he was fully hard again, Steve stilled his hand.

“May I?” he asked and Bucky nodded.

Steve leaned back down, taking the head of Bucky’s cock between his lips, slowly working his mouth down to take as much of the shaft in as possible, lightly stroking his fingertips over Bucky’s balls.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathed and the bed shifted a little as Bucky fell back down. “God, Stevie, oh fuck oh fuck, oh.”

Bucky’s voice spurred Steve on, and he hollowed out his cheeks, sucking and swirling his tongue by turns and feeling Bucky tremble beneath him. Steve had wanted this for so long, but none of his fantasies could compare. The taste of Bucky, the feel of him coming apart beneath Steve was exquisite.

“Steve, I’m gonna, Steve, I’m close, fuck, I’m gonna…”

Steve pulled off Bucky’s cock with a wet pop, giving him time to come back from the edge of his orgasm.

Bucky breathed hard for a second, hand fisted in the sheets, before opening his eyes.

“Take off your pants,” Bucky demanded, sitting up as well. Steve complied happily, pulling off his pants and underwear to kneel naked on the bed for Bucky’s gaze.

“There’s something…” Bucky started. He reached out a hand to run his fingers over Steve’s chest. “Something you said once. After I walked in on you in the shower.”

Steve blushed at the memory, and Bucky’s fingers followed the red stain down his sternum. “What did I say?” Steve asked.

“You were touching yourself. You said it felt good.”

“It does,” Steve affirmed. “Would you like me to…?”

Bucky nodded and Steve’s stomach clenched, his cock jumping a little at the thought. He reached down, wrapping his fingers around his shaft, never taking his eyes off Bucky’s face as he slowly starting stroking himself. Bucky’s eyes watched Steve’s movements intently, and he licked his lips. One hand reached out to toy with Steve’s nipple and Steve groaned at the sharp pleasure. Then Bucky’s other hand wrapped around his own where he was jerking himself off, and Steve nearly collapsed face first onto the bed.

“Bucky, oh my God, Buck,” he moaned, eyes squeezing shut.

Bucky’s lips found his, and for a moment Steve’s entire world whitened out until it was just him and Bucky and the heat pooling low in his abdomen.

“Steve,” Bucky said softly, lips moving over Steve’s jaw to his ear. “Want you, Stevie. Want you inside me.”

“God, yes,” Steve said, and pulled his hand away from his cock with some effort, Bucky letting go to lean back across the bed and rummage through the bedside cabinet to pull out a bottle and a foil packet.

Steve watched as Bucky flipped open the bottle, but stopped him before he could pour the lube into his hand.

“Buck, can I?”

Bucky nodded, even though he looked surprised. He lay down, then turned onto his stomach. “Like this,” he muttered as Steve touched his hip to turn him over again. “It’s the most comfortable.” His voice sounded apologetic, and Steve leaned down to kiss the tattooed skin between his shoulder blades.

“Then this is good,” Steve assured him. He let his hands roam over Bucky’s back and down to his ass, dipping his fingers into the cleft to explore, pressing soft kisses to down his spine every so often. Steve poured a generous amount of lube onto his hand, rubbing it between his fingers to warm up a little, before running the tip of his index finger gently over the tightly puckered little hole. Bucky spread his legs wider and Steve took that as permission to slip the tip of his finger inside. Bucky pressed down, making an impatient noise and Steve pushed deeper. He worked his finger in and out, taking his time and Bucky huffed. Steve slid a second finger in beside the first and Bucky squirmed down again, trying to get them deeper. Steve complied, albeit slowly, waiting until Bucky became impatient again before adding a third finger.

“God, Steve, the going slow thing is really unnecessary for this part,” he hissed, his voice a little bitter. “I’m not a tight little virgin anymore.”

Steve begged to differ. Bucky was plenty tight around his fingers, surprisingly so, even.

Steve leaned down to kiss up Bucky’s spine, while crooking his fingers inside him. Bucky’s back arched like a cat’s.

“Want to see your face,” Steve told him, repeating the movement of his fingers to make Bucky moan.

Bucky nodded against the pillows. “Okay.”

Steve pulled his fingers out of Bucky’s body and helped him turn onto his back again. He settled between Bucky’s legs and let his body press down on Bucky’s, sliding their cock’s together and capturing Bucky’s mouth in a sloppy kiss.

“Do you really want this, Buck?” Steve had to make sure, would hate himself if he took anything Bucky didn’t want to give.

“Yes,” Bucky breathed, “yes, want you, Stevie.”

Steve groaned, the words going straight to his cock. He sat back a little to roll the condom on and pour more lube to slick himself up. Then he positioned himself against Bucky’s hole and leaned down to kiss him again. Steve pushed in, slowly, and swallowed Bucky’s moans as he filled him inch by inch. Bucky was tight, hot and perfect around his cock and he said so, gasping each word into Bucky’s mouth. He bottomed out and paused inside Bucky, giving him a minute to adjust, but Bucky rolled his hips, trying to get Steve to move.

“Steve, just fuck me already,” Bucky urged, but Steve shook his head.

“Wanna make love to you, Buck.”

Bucky stilled a little, and Steve spoke again. “I love you.”

Bucky’s arms wound around Steve’s shoulders and he nodded.

Steve started moving, slowly, taking his time to savor the feeling of Bucky clenching around him, then marveling at the broken noise Bucky made as Steve hit his prostate. Steve was wrapped up completely in Bucky. Each breath, each whimper and moan and gasp, each drag of blunt nails across his back as Bucky arched into him.

“Tell me how it feels?” Steve begged.

“Good,” Bucky gasped. “Stevie, s’good, oh God, never like this, Stevie, never been this good, oh fuck, Steve…”

Steve smiled, canting his hips just so and watching Bucky throw his head back with a cry of pleasure.

“I love you,” he told Bucky, and as his thrusts sped up despite his effort to go slow, the words tumbled from his lips in an endless stream. Telling Bucky how perfect he was, how beautiful, how much Steve loved him. Bucky’s eyes were shut tightly, his breath hitching in his throat.

“Bucky,” Steve murmured, leaning down to kiss him again, “please look at me?”

Bucky’s eyes opened, his pupils blown wide. “Steve…” He was sobbing, suddenly and Steve gathered him in his arms, sitting up so Bucky was straddling his thighs, the position forcing him even deeper into Bucky’s body.

Bucky hooked his arms around Steve, burying his face in his neck as he moved his body, continuing the slow rhythm Steve had set up.

“Steve, touch me, please, Stevie.”

Steve reached down to stroke Bucky’s neglected cock and Bucky rolled his hips, increasing the pace of his movements. Steve stroked Bucky’s silky cock, thrusting his hips up to meet Bucky’s movements halfway. It only took a few thrusts before Bucky clenched around Steve like a vice, every muscle in his body pulling taut as he spurted hot come over Steve’s hand and both their stomachs, lips pressed tight over the side of Steve’s throat.

Steve made a broken sound and followed right after, the tightening of Bucky’s body around his cock seeming to draw out his orgasm infinitely and the world faded away around Steve, leaving nothing but Bucky wrapped around him.

They stayed locked together for a while, catching their breaths, pressing soft kisses to each other’s skin. Steve shifted them apart, finally, to take off the condom and throw it in the wastebasket, while Bucky got up, going to the bathroom to wet a washcloth and bring it back to the bed.

“Can I?” he asked, motioning to the cloth and Steve nodded. Bucky hummed quietly as he cleaned them off, then threw the cloth in the general direction of the bathroom.

“Steve,” he said quietly. They sat facing each other and for a moment cold apprehension filled Steve’s chest. “I… you said you love me.”

“I do,” Steve breathed.

“I… please don’t be angry,” Bucky looked afraid, suddenly, and Steve swallowed heavily.

“It’s okay,” he said as gently as he could. “I never expected you to feel the same way.”

“It’s not… Steve, it’s not…” Bucky paused, searching Steve’s face for a second. “You’re already angry.”

“I’m not angry, Bucky,” Steve told him, and it was the truth.

Bucky sighed. “Can I just try to explain?”

“You don’t need to, Bucky,” Steve murmured.

“Yes, I do.” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “I just… I’m not sure what to call it, I just… I read a lot, right?”

“I’ve noticed,” Steve said. He was feeling the need to escape more and more with every syllable Bucky uttered. He had no idea why Bucky would want to explain his indifference to Steve.

“And that’s how I feel, about you,” Bucky said, one hand lifting in an abortive gesture.

“Like reading?” Steve was a little confused, eyebrows knitting together.

“No, stupid,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “Like the characters in the books.”

Something very much like hope filled Steve’s chest. “Wait, uhm… you might have to narrow that down. You were reading Stephen King last I checked, and I’m not sure ‘abject horror’ is something I want anyone to feel about me.”

Bucky snorted a laugh and punched Steve’s shoulder. “You know what I mean. I just wasn’t sure if that’s actually… y’know… what love feels like.”

“Is it a good feeling?”

“Yes,” Bucky said quietly. “It is a little bit scary, though.”

“Sounds like love to me.” And it did.

Bucky nodded and leaned over to kiss Steve, sweet and lingering.

“So,” he said as he pulled away, leaving Steve a little breathless. “Grilled cheese for lunch?”

And if they abandoned their lunch halfway through for slightly more… intimate activities, Steve wasn’t going to complain.

 

Steve woke up slowly. He was immediately aware of the sound of rain, then of a warm body pressed against his back, a hand splayed out on his hip. It was a perfect moment, warm, sleepy, happy, only to be broken by a voice in his ear.

“You fart in your sleep.”

Steve groaned, burying his face in a pillow. “You hog the blankets.”

“You have terrible bed head right now.”

“And you have morning breath.”

“Do not!”

“Do too.”

“Punk.”

“Jerk.”

“Grandpa.”

“Still younger than you, Buck.”

Bucky poked Steve in the ribs.

“Quit it.”

Another poke. “You gotta get up and make me coffee.”

“Why me? It’s your house.”

“I made dinner last night.”

“I did the dishes.”

“You pressed the button _after_ I loaded the dishwasher.”

“It was a very nice button.”

“Coffee, Stevie.”

“Sleep, Buck.”

This time a foot was planted on Steve’s lower back, pushing him toward the edge of the bed.

“Okay, okay,” Steve grabbed Bucky’s foot. He sat up, and blinked a little blearily at Bucky, who had a satisfied little smirk on his face.

Steve leaned over to kiss him, smiling against his lips. “You really do have morning breath, Bucky.”

Bucky groaned. “You’re no fun.”

“Love you, too, sweetcheeks,” Steve said sweetly, admiring the view as Bucky got up and sauntered to the bathroom, with a deliberate little sway to his very naked backside. The familiar little insult made his chest fill with warmth.

Steve smiled, stretching his arms overhead. It had been an amazing night, bouts of talking and cuddling interspersed with three rounds of the most mindblowing sex of Steve’s life. Then he heard Bucky’s voice and suddenly felt almost giddy. He hadn’t heard Bucky sing in the shower for ages, had thought he would never hear it again. He recognized the song – Dear God by Avenged Sevenfold –, even hummed a few bars as he made his way down to the kitchen to make coffee after putting on his boxers.

Bucky came downstairs with wet hair and decidedly minty breath, and reward Steve for the coffee with a slow, heated kiss. Steve went upstairs to shower and get dressed for the day, then they had breakfast in front of the television, watching Wayne’s World. Bucky let his head rest in Steve’s lap after they had cleared their plates, making a soft noise of contentment as Steve ran his fingers through his hair. The movie ended and Bucky let out a sigh.

“Steve?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Not quite.”

“You’re no fun.”

“You’re the one who kept me up all night.”

“It seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”

“Oh, I was, I assure you. Were you?”

“Very much.” There was a long pause before Bucky spoke again. “Steve?”

“Yes, Buck?”

“You having second thoughts yet?”

“No,” Steve replied. “Still very much in love with you, Buck.”

Bucky sat up, twisting around so he could kiss Steve, sliding his tongue past his lips almost urgently. Steve was happy to let Bucky take the lead, winding his hands into Bucky’s hair as the other man straddled him, pressing their bodies together and pulling a moan from Steve.

Bucky was tugging Steve’s shirt up, nails dragging across the sensitive skin over Steve’s ribs, when the doorbell rang.

They both froze, then Bucky climbed off Steve. “It’s probably Wade. Could you get it while I make more coffee?”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve got up, straightening his clothes as he strode into the hall, a smartass remark on his tongue for Wade interrupting them.

Except it wasn’t Wade standing out of the rain on the doorstep.

“Uh, hello.” It was an older man, wearing a well-cut suit. He was tall and lean, clearly someone who took good care of himself, his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed and combed neatly, clean-shaven. He had had hazel eyes, friendly and intelligent. He also had the same cleft in his chin that Bucky had, the same cupid’s bow lips, the same nose. “Is Jimmy here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jimmy...


	31. I Sit Now With His Hand In Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Hollow by Pantera.
> 
> It's been a long time, guys! I'm so sorry for not posting sooner, life happened. 
> 
> Also, so much love and gratitude to everyone who commented on the non-chapter, I loved and saved each one!
> 
> Okay, so this is sorta two very short chapters in one, because after my very long absence, I could not leave you all with another cliffhanger.

_Wish I was too dead to cry_

_My self-affliction fades_

_Stones to throw at my creator_

_Masochists to which I cater_

_You don't need to bother;_

_I don't need to be_

_I'll keep slipping farther_

_But once I hold on,_

_I won't let go 'til it bleeds_

_Wish I was too dead to care_

_If indeed I cared at all_

_Never had a voice to protest_

_So you fed me shit to digest_

_I wish I had a reason;_

_my flaws are open season_

_For this, I gave up trying_

_One good turn deserves my dying_

_Wish I'd died instead of lived_

_A zombie hides my face_

_Shell forgotten_

_with its memories_

_Diaries left_

_with cryptic entries_

_You don't need to bother;_

_I don't need to be_

_I'll keep slipping farther_

_But once I hold on:_

_I'll never live down my deceit_

_\- Bother, Stone Sour_

 

~

 

“Is Jimmy here?”

Before Steve could say anything, Bucky’s voice rose from behind him.

“Dad?”

The man’s lips lifted in a smile, his eyes looking past Steve toward Bucky.

“Jimmy. It’s been too long. How are you, son?”

Steve turned, moving out of the way so the man could step into the hall. On the curb behind him, Steve saw a shiny grey sedan that must be his.

“Where did you get this address?” Bucky’s voice was strained, and Steve looked from the man to him, pushing away the urge to bodily shield Bucky from the man.

“Your manager, Mr Pierce, gave it to me. He said he was worried about you, that you haven’t been doing too well.”

Bucky didn’t reply, his chest rising and falling with each silent breath, as if the air were too thin. After a tense moment, the man turned to Steve.

“We haven’t been introduced. I’m George Barnes, Jimmy’s father.”

Steve took the man’s proffered hand, but Bucky cut across him as he started to speak.

“Steve is my bodyguard.” The words were flat, inflectionless, and Steve turned a worried gaze to Bucky, recognizing the utter stillness that showed Bucky was under stress. “Steve,” Bucky continued. “I’m out of tea. Could you go get some, please?”

For a moment, the world seemed to warp around Steve. Because Bucky had just told an outright lie. Bucky, who bent the truth, but never said anything untrue, ever, had lied. Steve knew this, because Bucky had spent twenty minutes the previous night teaching Steve how to properly make tea, and Steve clearly remembered the box being almost full. Such a small thing, Steve thought. Such a small thing to lie about. It sent shivers of _something_ almost like panic up Steve’s spine.

“Right now?” Steve asked.

“Yes.” Bucky reached out and snagged a set of keys from the bowl on the hall table. “Take my car.”

Steve caught the keys Bucky tossed to him. He pressed down on the steadily rising feeling of something being very wrong. Steve knew Bucky and his father hadn’t seen each other in years, maybe he just wanted some time for them to get reacquainted? Yes, Steve reasoned to himself, that had to be it.

“Okay,” Steve said, and moved to put on his shoes, ignoring the way George Barnes silently watched the exchange between them.

“I have my phone,” Steve told Bucky. “Call if you need anything.”

“Yeah.” Bucky wasn’t even looking at Steve, his eyes fixed on his father.

Steve took a last glance at Bucky as he left, unable to shake the feeling that he was making a mistake in leaving.

 

The drive across town was unpleasant, the traffic heavier than expected for the time of day, the rain adding to an atmosphere of disaster-waiting-to-happen, and it scratched at Steve’s nerves. While in the car, he dialed Nat’s number. She answered on the third ring.

“Hey,” Steve said, “you still friends with that PI?”

“Yeah,” Nat’s voice sounded tinny and distant through the loudspeaker. “You have something for her?”

“I just want some info on someone,” Steve started. The explanation of his suspicions lasted all the way to the little import shop in Manhattan where Bucky bought the Russian tea he liked.

“Thanks, Nat,” Steve told her as he parked the car.

“Anytime,” Nat replied. “Hey, since your assignment’s almost over, we should all go for a drink sometime soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “that sounds really good.”

He ended the call and went into the shop, finding the tea with some difficulty. He paid and got back in the car just as his phone beeped with a text. It was Sam, sending him a silly picture of Clint right after winning a round of Mortal Kombat. Steve grinned and typed congratulations to his friend.

The traffic back to Bucky’s house was an even worse nightmare. The rain came down heavier, seemingly causing half the population to forget how to drive. Steve breathed a sigh of relief as he parked Bucky’s car and got out, the plastic bag with the tea slung over one finger. There was no sign of the man’s car near Bucky’s house and Steve felt a second wave of relief wash over him. He ducked through the front door, dripping a little, and called out to Bucky. There was no reply.

Steve frowned as he checked the living room and kitchen. Both empty. His stomach lurched at the sudden vivid memory of the wooden box Bucky kept under his bed. Steve rushed up the stairs and into Bucky’s room, only to stop dead in his tracks, the bag of tea falling from his limp fingers onto the floor with a barely audible thud. There was the wooden box, on the floor, lid open, some of its contents spilled out on the floor like the viscera of a man who had stepped on a landmine.

Steve dragged his eyes from the box to the immobile shape on the bed.

“Bucky… oh dear God, _Bucky, no!”_

 

~

 

_Help me if you can_

_It's just that this, this is not the way I'm wired_

_So could you please,_

_Help me understand why_

_You've given in to all these_

_Reckless dark desires_

_You're lying to yourself again_

_Suicidal imbecile_

_Think about it, you're pounding on the fault line_

_What'll it take to get it through to you precious_

_I'm over this. Why do you wanna throw it away like this?_

_Such a mess._

_Why would I want to watch you_

_Disconnect and self-destruct one bullet at a time?_

_What's your rush now, everyone will have his day to die_

_Medicated, drama queen, picture perfect, numb belligerence_

_Narcissistic, drama queen, craving fame and all its decadence_

_Disconnect and self-destruct, one bullet at a time_

_What's your hurry, everyone will have his day to die_

_If you choose to pull the trigger, should your drama prove sincere,_

_Do it somewhere far away from here_

_\- The Outsider, A Perfect Circle_

 

~

 

Feeling like a puppet controlled by invisible strings, Steve allowed his training to move his body. He rushed over to where Bucky was slumped on his side, phone already in his hand, his fingers dialing without need for his brain to think about it first.

Bucky’s eyes were rolled back, only the whites visible through his half-closed lids. There was a small puddle of vomit on the pillow, smeared over his cheek and in his hair, but he was breathing, if barely, as Steve checked to make sure his airway was clear.

Steve spoke to the operator as calmly as he possibly could, even as wanted to scream and cry for Bucky to _just wake up._

“Drug overdose. Heroin, maybe something else. Yes, he’s breathing. Pulse irregular.”

The minutes it took the ambulance to arrive each seemed like an entire lifetime of waiting, praying, begging.

Steve adjusted Bucky’s body into the recovery position, talking quietly to him, begging him to hold on, to not leave Steve like this. Finally, Steve heard the sirens and he rushed downstairs to meet the paramedics. He stood aside to let them work, answering the questions they shot at him as accurately as he could. As they carried him out on the stretcher, Steve’s eyes fell on a folded piece of paper printed with his name, and a crystal case containing an unmarked DVD.

Steve rode in the ambulance to the hospital, gripping the paper and DVD.

Once there he watched them hurry Bucky away, then went to the nurse’s station to fill out what forms he could, while the hospital called Wade, who was listed as Bucky’s emergency contact.

Wade arrived sooner than Steve expected, rushing over to him with panic written clearly on his scarred face.

“He’s still inside,” Steve said before Wade could start asking questions. “I haven’t heard anything yet. He OD’d. I don’t know if I was too late.”

“Where were you?!” Wade snapped. “You were supposed to be with him! Why weren’t you?”

“He sent me to get him tea.” The answer was so weak. Steve felt his throat tighten. “I’m sorry.”

Wade seemed to calm down a bit, one hand gripping Steve’s shoulder. “What happened?”

They sat down on uncomfortable plastic chairs and Steve told Wade about the morning’s events. At the mention of Bucky’s father, Wade looked just as puzzled as Steve felt. Finally, a doctor came to find them.

“I’m Dr Khadem. Mr Barnes is alive, but he is in a coma. It may be only temporary, but there is no way of knowing when he will wake up. I am sorry. We will be moving him to a room soon, then someone will bring you to see him.”

Steve nodded, shaking the doctor’s hand and thanking him. Wade did the same.

Steve turned to him. “I should go pack him a bag,” he said quietly.

“Okay,” Wade seemed a little lost. “I’ll call the guys, let them know.”

“Yeah. Fred’s still at Darcy’s. Could you call her, too? I don’t have the number.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Steve left the hospital, still clutching Bucky’s note.

Once back inside Bucky’s house, he put the note and DVD on the kitchen counter, then went upstairs. He changed the sheets on Bucky’s bed, putting the soiled ones in the wash. Then he emptied the wooden box. He flushed the drugs and threw away the other paraphernalia, then put the box back under Bucky’s bed.

He rummaged through Bucky’s closet, pulling out a duffel bag and filling it with several changes of clothes and pajamas, toiletries, a couple of books and Bucky’s phone and charger. He set the bag in the hall before going to the kitchen.

He lifted the note and read the two words written inside.

_I’m sorry._

Then he took the DVD into the living room and popped it into the player.

 _Home movies,_ Steve thought as the screen showed him a little boy who had to be Bucky when he was about five years old. Then Steve realized what he was seeing and recoiled, skipping ahead to the next part, showing George Barnes’ face before panning to Bucky at around six. Then a gap toothed third grader. Chubby and eating cake on his twelfth birthday. A surly fourteen-year old. All starring Bucky and his dad.

Steve stopped the DVD, sitting back for a second before jumping up, nearly tripping over his own feet as he ran to the bathroom. He reached the toilet just in time to be violently sick. He retched up what was left of his breakfast, the acidic bile burning he throat. It took a while for the nausea to subside, and Steve swayed a little as he got to his feet to rinse his mouth and splash water on his face. When he felt a little steadier, he went back to the living room and removed the DVD from the player. He snapped the disc in half and threw it in the trash, leaving the empty case on the table. He put Bucky’s note in his pocket and grabbed the duffel, locking the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there was a mini Bucky POV chapter [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9674888)
> 
> And, if any of you are interested in more Wade, I wrote a [thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6023238) and another [thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9772352) for the past two annual international fanworks days. Maybe they could tide you guys over until the next chapter?


	32. Try to die again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Suicide Note pt. I by Pantera.

_Now I think I understand_

_How this world can overcome a man_

_Like a friend we saw it through_

_In the end I gave my life for you_

_Gave you all I had to give_

_Found a place for me to rest my head_

_While I may be hard to find_

_Heard there's peace just on the other side_

_Not that I could_

_Or that I would_

_Let it burn_

_Under my skin_

_Let it burn_

_Left this life to set me free_

_Took a piece of you inside of me_

_All this hurt can finally fade_

_Promise me you'll never feel afraid_

_I hope it's worth it_

_What's left behind me, yeah_

_I know you'll find your own way_

_When I'm not with you_

_So tell everybody_

_The ones who walk beside me, yeah_

_I know you'll find your own way_

_When I'm not with you tonight_

_\- Fiction, Avenged Sevenfold_

~

 

Back at the hospital, Wade was slumped in a chair, Scott next to him, his face drawn in worry. Steve put Bucky’s duffel down near Wade’s feet, opened his mouth to say… anything, and was interrupted by the hurrying footsteps of Rumlow coming towards them.

“Jack is out of town; he’s making arrangements to come back. What the fuck happened?”

Three pairs of eyes turned to Steve, who took a deep breath before relaying the day’s events, leaving out only that he and Bucky had slept together and the DVD Bucky had left him.

Steve sank into a chair a little ways away from Wade and Scott, feeling more like an outsider here than he’d ever done before. To his surprise, Rumlow came to sit next to him.

“His dad showed up?” Rumlow asked in a low voice.

Steve nodded, casting a sideways glance at the other man. “He said Pierce gave him Bucky’s address.”

Rumlow made a quiet sound. “Did he tell you? About his dad?”

Steve nodded again. “It was too late. You knew?”

“Yeah,” Rumlow scrubbed a hand over his face. “We used to be good friends, me and James. You probably think I’m full of shit, but it’s true. I fucked it up by being a dick, I was too angry, too fuckin’ scared. Fuck.”

Rumlow looked at Steve for a long beat, his eyes a little red.

Steve gripped his shoulder for a second, at a loss for words. It was a long wait, and soon more people were arriving. Darcy, wearing ripped skinny jeans and dark red lipstick, followed by a huge blond man who was introduced to Steve as Thor, the owner of the tattoo shop where Darcy worked. He hugged everyone, even Steve, then sat down on a chair that looked too flimsy to support his bulk. After them it was Rollins, who sat next to Rumlow without a word. Then came Sam, who tried to persuade Steve to go home.

“I’m staying, Sam,” Steve said, obstinate. Sam sighed and sank into a chair next to Darcy, just as the doors on the far side of the corridor swung open.

Dr Khadem walked over to them, his expression serious. “Mr Barnes has been moved to a private room, though he is still in a coma. You can see him in pairs, no more than two minutes each, for now.”

Wade got up first, gripping Steve’s shoulder and all but hauling him along the corridor after the doctor.

They turned into a room, which Steve had expected would be filled with beeping machinery and nurses, but had only one silent machine and no nurses at the moment. Just Bucky, on his back on the uncomfortable-looking bed, seeming for all the world to be sleeping.

Wade went over the him immediately, making some pun that Steve could barely hear over the rushing in his ears. Steve stayed at the end of the bed, though he reached out with one hand to brush his fingers over Bucky’s blanket-covered ankle. With a certainty Steve couldn’t explain, he knew Bucky would wake up soon. Knew it like the color of Bucky’s eyes or the sound of his voice. He turned and left the room, motioning for Darcy to take his place once he’d reached the group of Bucky’s loved ones. He sat down next to Sam, and pressed his fingers to his lips. More waiting, as each person got to see Bucky, then more waiting as some went home, and others got greasy food from the cafeteria. More waiting as Sam begged Steve to come home to sleep and he refused. More waiting as the sun set and rose and set again. More waiting as Steve dozed fitfully in his chair. More waiting as Wade pressed a cup of tarry coffee into his hand in the pre-dawn chill. More waiting as Darcy assured him Fred was fine. More waiting as the doctor came to check in and tell them Bucky’s condition remained unchanged. More waiting, and waiting, and waiting as something like a scream built up inside Steve. Five days of waiting. Five days, then there was a commotion outside of Bucky’s room and the doctor came rushing past, into the room already filled with nurses, and a beeping somewhere close by.

“He’s awake.”

The doctor’s face swam in Steve’s vision as he sank down against the wall. _He’s awake._ Steve was numb, too cold, too hot, his eyes blurring, his ribs aching and then he realized he wasn’t breathing.

_He’s awake._

Steve dragged in breath, forcing oxygen into his lungs. _He’s awake._

He found his feet, found Sam. _He’s awake._

“I want to go home.” _He’s awake._

 

Three days later, Wade showed up on his doorstep.

“He asked about you.” It wasn’t an accusation.

Steve sighed. “I can’t, Wade. I’ll be a crutch for him.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yeah. He’s strong enough to get clean without me. And if he doesn’t… I’d rather he do that without me, too.”

“He asked about a DVD he gave you.”

Steve’s eyes snapped up to Wade’s face, then back down to the coffee mug in his hands. “It didn’t change anything. You can tell him I said that.”

“So, in other news,” Wade said. “Pierce got arrested. On charges of sexual harassment and coercion. A girl in a band he used to manage came forward. The whole thing pretty much razed Hydra Records to the ground.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Steve lied, making a mental note to send Natasha and her private investigator a couple of expensive gifts for a job well done.

“Oh, that’s just the start of it. Yesterday morning, none other than business tycoon Tony Stark himself strolls into Bucky’s hospital room where we’re all gathered, right. And he cool-as-a-fucking-cucumber informs us he’s branching out into the music industry with a record label called Iron Man records. I suppose he paid Black Sabbath a bajillion dollars to use the name. And he offers us a deal, right there, wearing a Tom Ford three piece with grease stains on the cuffs.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “That’s some imagination you got there, Wade.”

“You’d think I’d be making this up, but I’m not.”

“Did you accept?” Steve asked, making another mental note to paint something completely ostentatious for Tony, who he’d guarded a couple of times over the years, and to whom he had turned to cash in a favor he had earned by saving Tony’s life.

“Hell yeah! Rollins seemed to have some second thoughts, but Bucky took one look at Brock and he got Jack to agree.”

“I’m really happy for you guys,” Steve said, with obvious sincerity.

“But you won’t come talk to Bucky?”

“There’s nothing to say, Wade,” Steve said, weariness seeping into his bones. “And… if Bucky doesn’t get clean… Wade, I can’t go through that again.” There was no use pretending in front of Wade that his feelings didn’t run deeper than employer-employee, or even just friends. Wade must have known since Steve had refused to leave the hospital until Bucky had woken up.

“And when he does get clean?” Wade asked.

“I hope to God he does.”

“And when he does?” Wade repeated.

“Then I want him to be happy. Without me.”

“Why does it have to be without you?” Wade looked almost heartbroken. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do. Enough to be his crutch, his escape mechanism, his enabler. I’ve already been that too long. I’m bad for him. I’ll stop his from getting better.”

Finally, either agreeing with Steve, or tired of fighting him, Wade left, but not before wringing a promise out of Steve to stay in touch with him, if not with Bucky.

 

Exhausted and miserable, Steve sat down on his bed. For the first time since returning all his belongings to his and Sam’s apartment, he pulled his sketchbook closer. He opened to the first blank page and drew his index finger down neatly torn pages where he’d removed Bucky’s tattoo design. Those pages he’d left carefully on top of Bucky’s bed, for him to find once he’d been discharged from the hospital. A parting gift.


	33. And These Eyes Have Seen A World: Goddamn Electric System...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Goddamn Electric by Pantera.
> 
> 315 Bowery is (was) the address of CBGB.
> 
> Please read [.5: The Gray Chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10556104) first.

_So close no matter how far_

_Couldn't be much more from the heart_

_Forever trusting who we are_

_And nothing else matters_

_Never opened myself this way_

_Life is ours, we live it our way_

_All these words I don't just say_

_And nothing else matters_

_Trust I seek and I find in you_

_Every day for us something new_

_Open mind for a different view_

_And nothing else matters_

_Never cared for what they do_

_Never cared for what they know_

_But I know_

_Never cared for what they say_

_Never cared for games they play_

_Never cared for what they do_

_Never cared for what they know_

_And I know_

_So close no matter how far_

_Couldn't be much more from the heart_

_Forever trusting who we are_

_No nothing else matters_

_\- Nothing Else Matters, Metallica_

 

~

 

Thirteen Months Later

 

Steve’s phone vibrated with a text alert, and he barely suppressed the impulse to reach for it. Checking your phone while standing discreetly next to a very high profile politician was a bad idea. Even worse considering that the politician Steve was guarding was attending a meeting with the President of the United States, who was sitting directly in Steve’s line of sight. He sighed. President Ellis wasn’t awful, but his successor and the new administration… well, that was a whole pile of _nope_ that Steve didn’t wanna touch with a ten-foot pole. Unless that touching came in the form of punching the Neo-Nazi Chief Strategist in the face. That, Steve thought to himself, he would do with a smile.

 

Once the meeting was over and he was free for a lunchbreak, Steve pulled his phone out of his pocket.

 

**Wade: I want you, I need you, oh baby, oh baby.**

Steve raised an eyebrow.

**Steve: While I appreciate a 10 Things I Hate About You reference as much as the next guy, I don’t think that text was meant for me.**

**Wade: oh but it was, big boy. I need you to accompany me on a night time excursion ;)**

**Steve: Am I required to wear a stocking over my head? Or bring a grappling hook?**

**Wade: nope. just wear a nice button up and bring Sammy-baby ;x**

**Steve: Sounds terrifying.**

**Wade: Tomorrow, 8pm, 315 Bowery**

Steve put his phone back in his pocket, then reconsidered and pulled it out again. He texted Wade in the affirmative, then called Sam to extend the invitation. Over the last few months he’s kept in contact with Wade via text and twitter – never so much as mentioning Bucky – but has only seen the man once, briefly at the grocery store, since their conversation after the hospital.

He was apprehensive, but even so, the following evening found him buttoning up a blood red shirt over dark blue jeans. He shrugged on a leather jacket and followed Sam out of their apartment.

The address was for a bar in Manhattan, the kind that would never see an inch of gentrification and still have their logo on celebs’ t-shirts. Wade was standing outside, in front of a sign advertising live music, next to a young man with curly brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses that managed to be more adorable than hipster.

“Peter,” Wade said, “this is Steven and Samwise. Steven, Samwise, my soulmate, Peter.”

Peter rolled his eyes as he shook their hands. “I’ve heard a lot about you guys, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” said Steve, who’d never heard a word about Peter from Wade.

Peter smiled and walked into the bar alongside Steve.

“Wade doesn’t talk about me too much, even though we’ve known each other for a few years.”

“Why?” Steve asked, taking a seat next to Peter at the table Wade pointed out, glancing at the other man’s profile as he went to the bar to get drinks with Sam in tow.

“He thinks I should be ashamed of him,” Peter said, his voice fond. “Because of his military record and, I daresay, the scars. Stupid, really. If I weren’t straight, I’d probably have married him by now.”

Steve smiled. “Wade’s a good man.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, looking over his shoulder at the subject of their discussion. “He really is.”

They made small-talk and Steve learned Peter was doing freelance photography to pay for NYU, that he really wanted to be a biochemist someday, and that he had a really cool girlfriend named Mary-Jane.

It was nice, sitting in the dimly lit bar with friends, classic rock filtering through the speakers.

Then the spotlight over the empty little stage in the back corner came on and a man with graying, curly hair stepped out, microphone in hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man said in a whiskey-rich voice. “Please welcome to our humble establishment, from the band Siberia; James Barnes!”

Steve looked across the table at Wade, feeling betrayed. Wade gripped Steve’s forearm, pinning it to the table.

“Just stay until the end of the set. Please, Steve.”

Steve sagged. He didn’t want to cause a scene, especially not now. He lifted his gaze to the stage, and watched Bucky step into the spotlight with a guitar in his hand.

He looked good. Very good, Steve noticed as he took a seat on a stool and started adjusting his microphone. He looked leaner, his cheekbones standing out in sharp relief under slightly flushed skin and Steve realized that this was the first time he’d ever seen Bucky in perfect health. He seemed thinner because there was no bloating from drink and drugs. His skin was flushed naturally, from the heat of the stage lights. Steve knew that – if Bucky were to remove his long-sleeved white t-shirt – his body would be all lean muscle, healthy and strong. Bucky started playing and singing an acoustic version of a Siberia song, and Steve saw his hair had grown longer, now falling just past his shoulders in shiny, soft, chocolate colored waves that Steve wanted very badly to run his fingers through.

For three songs Steve sat silently transfixed, then Bucky took a break to drink some water and readjust the mic. He pushed up his sleeves to resume playing and Steve sucked in a shuddering breath. Because his right arm, bare and smooth the last time Steve had seen it, was now covered in ink. A flowing, organic design, all eyes and flesh and skin and bone. Fenrir, the great wolf of Norse mythology. Steve knew it, intimately, because he had spent hours drawing it. It was the tattoo he had designed for Bucky, the sketches he had left on his bed, now imbedded within Bucky’s skin the way Bucky was imbedded in Steve’s soul.

Steve watched Bucky as he strummed his guitar, an unfamiliar melody blossoming warm and sweet from it.

_“Can’t tell the difference between truth and fiction_

_Can’t get enough, it’s become an addiction_

_I’m painting this scene with the symptoms of my affliction_

_I’m pulling myself in conflicting directions…_

_But I don’t care_

_I need some sleep_

_I don’t care enough to keep on looking for direction_

_I think that I’m in need of some protection.”_

 

If there had still been any question of Steve leaving, Bucky’s voice made the answer very clear. Steve glanced at Wade, who was smiling fondly at Peter, then looked back to Bucky, drinking in every note.

Not once during the set did Bucky look their way, and Steve wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. He settled on relief as Bucky finally walked of stage, and leaned across to Sam.

“Can you get me another beer? I’m going to the bathroom.”

Sam nodded and Steve left to go empty his bladder and clear his head. For so long he’d been studiously avoiding news about Siberia and Bucky, that seeing him now was more of a shock than Steve expected it to be. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink as he washed his hands. Same old Steve, no outer signs of his inner turmoil. He mentally told himself to quit being a baby and left the bathroom, treading gingerly through the narrow, dark corridor back to the bar, only to almost literally bump into someone silhouetted against the lights from the room where Steve was heading.

“Steve.”

Steve swallowed heavily. “Hey, Buck.”

Bucky smiled at him, his gaze warm. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” Steve said, “working a lot. How ‘bout you?”

Bucky’s smile widened a little. “Better. Been sober for almost eight months now.”

Steve grinned, genuine and happy. “That’s great, Buck! I’m happy to hear it.”

Bucky nodded, ducking his head a little. “I’m going to therapy, too. To deal with all this crap, y’know.” Bucky motioned to his head.

Steve couldn’t help it. He reached out a hand to clasp Bucky’s shoulder. “I really am happy for you, Bucky.”

“Thanks, Stevie.”

Steve stood aside to let Bucky pass into the corridor, took two steps toward the table where Wade, Sam and Peter were sitting, then felt a hand on his arm.

He turned to face Bucky, who looked suddenly serious. “Hey, Steve, I just… wanted to say I’m sorry. For, y’know…”

Steve nodded. “I know. It’s okay.”

But Bucky shook his head. “I get it, y’know, why you left. It might sound fucking awful to say this, but you did the right thing.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah. It was the kick in the ass that I needed.”

Steve gave a rueful smile. “Well, in that case, you’re welcome.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, then turned somber. “I miss you.”

The words made Steve’s breath hitch, and he swallowed heavily.

“I miss you, too.”

“Maybe…” Bucky hesitated, “maybe we could get dinner sometime? If you want?”

“Only if you promise to have me home before curfew. I’m old, I need my eight hours of sleep.”

“Grandpa.”

“Jerk.”

“Punk.”

Steve grinned. “I should go. I actually have to work this weekend, so I should get an early night.”

“An early night,” Bucky mocked playfully. “You’re no fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are food for starving writers, please feed me! 
> 
> Also, for Marvel prompts or to request a fic - find me on Twitter at [yollie183](https://twitter.com/Yollie183)
> 
> To yell at me and call me an asshole, find me on [tumblr](http://yollie183.tumblr.com/)


End file.
